Her fingertips smelt of ashtray
The air stale like the dentures in her purse.
We try not to talk as much in small rooms
Everything seems to get complicated
Too busy
Words wrapped around our throats
Choking our ability to speak honestly

The stone slate she laid upon was once called a bed
Sleep can’t happen on such a platform
Stiff as the pain she feels on days
Like everyday
She told me the dreams she had once
The ones about living her life

These dreams were filled with elation
Something to fill the empty side of the bed
Her tongue was dry
From talking about these dreams
The ones that never happen
Ever
They were stolen from her
Stuffed into a newspaper article

Her dreams reside in the morphine drip
Clenched deep inside her fist
Holding on to anything
Onto her sons
Gods gift upon this earth
A reason to resist deaths shadow

For another chance to say I love you
Be strong my boys
Be wise
Treat your woman like you treated me
Love the way I love you
Smile for it gave me a reason to live