i think i have forgotten how to dream
for the last time it happened
i smiled and ran my palms through your hair
sifting out sand and fumbling at the
buried shards of sea glass
that bite at my calloused fingers.
your frothy eyes threaten to drown me
but instead i inhale dopamine and
carefully trace the thin boardwalks
that wrap around your skull
where the hair is missing.
you ask me if i cried
and i said that i
didn’t think i knew
once when i was young
i saw a baby cardinal
huddled and bleeding in the grass.
i watched the ants and the flies skim over the contours
of its closed eyelids
until i scooped it up and held it to my chest
and cradled it back, and forth
once my mother walked outside and scolded me
and she told me not to