I keep dreaming of you in that strawberry patch we had – my backyard, 2007.
The barn was already haunted so I planted my nightmares in bushels of berries for others to ingest – you know the old fairytale about watermelon seeds, well, it also works with spores of sadness.
I wish you could have seen it, but you must have some time or another. You picked me from a lineup of a hundred black-haired offenders, most with blue eyes the color of a package of ramen noodles or Pepsi cola cans.
Suggestions that I vend my fruit, their ovaries, were fortified between phone calls from state-over friends I just did not have the ovaries to do so, no strength: it would feel like the hair being pulled from my scalp
before I even knew you. Present day, it is easy to understand why – I keep dreaming of you in that old strawberry patch choosing to taste and love my sorrow over someone else’s happiness, as if it were beautiful.