Time and again,
at dusk or dawn,
I beg my head to envisage
a mirage or an image
of your bones lying still in death.
That helps me sleep at night.
It calms my breath.
In my dreams, you're a phantom.
Torn away from me, inadvertently.
You didn't leave,
pick up and disappear deliberately.
You were poisoned, ill, choked, killed,
you froze or passed in sleep,
you maybe drowned at sea.
Not in despair, in a life so unfair.
You did what you thought was best.
Perhaps it was, I still can't tell.
It's what you do when you're young,
seek a new start, a chance to become
something you can't run away from.
In my dreams, I'm your companion.
Your muse, friend and lover,
we ran away together.
Travelled and settled, hand in hand.
Built a life that could withstand
everything that drove you away forever.
In my dreams, you couldn't let go and we didn't have to end.
In reality, I find it easier to pretend you were dead.
You'll live forever in my dreams.
My brain makes up stories to compartmentalise when I'm in pain, like imagining the love of my life dead when they broke my heart. Morbid yes, but it helped me start to heal.