I stopped breathing last night,
dreams of weights resting on
my chest woke me flailing,
calling for help without a voice.
In my dream we were in your room
and you were sleeping on my
chest the way that you used to.
We'd had a fight about my best friend
about how you thought that he was
in love with me just like
that barista at our café and
my scruffy coworker and just about
everyone on my train ride home.
I told you,
(I think I screamed a little)
that it wasn't possible because I had you.
You said I had a Dickinson heart
but I didn't understand your
literary references
(because by this point I was crying)
and so you kissed me and laid me
down and I woke up
suffocating.
You were sitting on my chest, darling,
grinning at me.