slowly accepting the mortality of everything
over my morning cup of tea.

there is a boy until there isn’t.
and there isn’t,
not anymore.

last night i had a dream
that felt so much like you.
this is to say, i was afraid.
this is to say, it hurt.
this city has your name plastered
all over its walls
and that will take some time
getting used to.

in these dreams, you finally unravel before me.
you tell me:
“the thing i loved most about Boy Scouts
were the knots. how we learned to create
and unmake.
how i could keep everything in its place.
how i could hold anything together.”
i finally tell you:
“our sun signs aren’t the most compatible.”
neither of us ever care about this.
you go on and say “once, i got a badge
after saving a baby bird. i fixed its wing”
and i say,
“i have never wanted to be saved to begin with.”

in this one, you tell me everything.
you look me in the eye and say:
“hurt people hurt people
and darling,
sometimes it hurts too much.” you say,
“sweetie,
sometimes i look at you
and wonder if i ever really wanted this,” or
“baby, you make me so weary. there is no space left
in you that looks familiar anymore,” or
“honey, you’re something
i don’t know if i can handle.
something i am afraid to leave.”
and though i have already said these things to myself, in this dream
i do not know how to keep quiet. there is a truth
inside my mouth screaming
I AM FINALLY OKAY WITH NOT BEING OKAY
I JUST WISH IT DIDN’T HURT SO MUCH.

in this universe,
you speak
of boy scouts. say the bird flew too close to a fire,
said its wings were always broken, said you always wanted to fix
sad things
so you took some string,
crossed my heart,
and i hoped to die.

in this dream, you tell me
“sometimes i touch you and get burned
and i am already all out of rope.
there is no more saving left in me.
there is no more water left in these bones.”

and you finally believe me when i tell you:
“that’s okay.
i wasn’t thirsty anyway.”