This morning, I dream of a birch tree bench upon which she strews jars of sea glass, filled with blues and greens or something inbetween.
Sunlight shifting like prismarine snakeskin, shed where sky meets eye, dyes the white wood underneath in bisecting lines that ripple and breathe.
Thumbing at sea glass, I see her smile, circa redress, in a pile of polaroids passed over the wood by hands neither she nor I possess.
And then I see me, my head leaned into hers, two gray trees grown too free. Hairs tangle and end centimeters from the edge of the bed.
We look together. That’s when I cry.
Beneath two trees planted too close, below silver halide wiping blue and green from her eyes, in black ink that's yet to dry, she leaves a note that I can’t read because this is a dream and we were the lie.
I had a bittersweet dream this morning and decided to process it through poetry.