In My Dream

In my dream I am crawling
My limbs are stiff but strong, arms packed with smooth, firm muscle overtaking my shoulders and neck
My fingernails are caked with dirt and blood and something yellow but I carry myself on
Amused but not surprised by my strength.
I have a purpose, and my body stands warm against the steady breeze
I can smell you
I can taste you on the smooth of my long, twisted tongue
My mouth is dripping and my teeth are clenching
You are nowhere around, not buried in the dirt or blowing among the trees
But I know I can feel you.
I open my eyes and I crawl across the covers to your still, pale body
Your skin is like marble and I carefully trace the small bodies of water that hold your pooling blood
My nails are clean and my arms are thin
And I am cold without your warmth
I slip the weight of you onto my hands and you fall through like rain water
I am digging into the mattress, turning over pillows, ripping through the bed sheets.

I could never really hold onto you,
Even in my dream.

I Could've Stayed With You

I could've stayed with you.

I could have dried out and shrunk up, like fresh grass plucked from the dirt by some toddler's chubby hands, thrown onto the cement and forgotten, easily, as the next distraction came.
I could have fallen under the weight of you, the weight of us, that only I could feel and believe in and hold up.
I could have rested quietly, small, at the foot of the bed while I waited for your eyes to fall on my half-eaten heart.
I could have grown stale from not being sealed up properly, the cheap plastic only loosely fitting my untouched flesh, when you forgot about me
Forgot about me at stop lights that last a little too long for eyes to meet and lips to touch
Forgot about me across from you at the diner while your black coffee and yellow eggs went cold
Forgot about me while the words and the air were still moving from my lungs and heart and mind and mouth.

Thank God I didn't stay with you.