I. DREAM
Bare feet in a field of roses.
The flowers whisper to each other,
secrets I will never know.
Among the voices is hers; she speaks my name
in her melodic lilt. Beckons me.
I run and look around, run and look around,
crying out for her, unable to find her.
Her voice taunts me now;
the flowers’ whispers grow louder, bolder,
dripping honeyed futures into my mind,
all that we could have had together.
If only we were still together.
If only you could find me. You can’t even find me.
Her voice bleeds venom into my lungs and I cannot breathe,
cannot see, cannot find her. Oh, how I need her.
The world becomes a kaleidoscope of pink, white, red,
as she becomes one rose among many,
only thorns in my heart.

II. REALITY
Spikes impaling my heart. Eyes opening. Lungs sucking in cold air.
The dream. Her voice.
For a minute, I heard her there. She was still with me.
Wave after wave, the truth hits me.
That wasn’t her. I didn’t see her, didn’t hear her. She’s gone.
Wetness on my cheeks, my pillow. Salt on my lips.
Memories play in my mind, dancing over each other all at once.
Weaving themselves like threads. A knot I cannot untangle.

III. THERAPY
“I don’t remember much about the dream, but there were lots of flowers, and then there was her voice. And it hurt that I could hear her but couldn’t find her, no matter how much I ran, but… it hurt even more to—to wake up and realize I will never see or hear her again. As much as it hurt to be away from her in the dream, at least she was there somewhere, even—even if not with me. I didn’t think I would cry, sorry. I’m sorry, I usually keep my tears to myself, I just—it’s… Sorry… It’s fine, I’m fine. It’s just so—so hard. She meant everything to me, and now I feel terribly alone. Inescapably vulnerable. I have no idea what I’m meant to do without her. I see her everywhere I go, even in places I’d never think of her before, isn’t that weird? Like at the grocery store, when I saw her favorite cheese. I mean, it’s just cheese, but somehow it brought down all the memories I’m trying not to think about, and somehow they all crashed into each other until I couldn’t tell them apart, couldn’t think of anything else. I didn’t even realize I was blocking the whole aisle. And at home, I always see the spaces she used to fill—sitting on the couch, washing dishes, making coffee—all empty. It’s like living with a ghost. And it hurts me every time, every time an image or a memory of her hits me. I don’t want to forget her, ever—I couldn’t if I wanted to—but it’s so tiring to remember her. I don’t think I’m strong enough to remember her. And I guess maybe that makes me a bad person, because I should be keeping her memory alive after her death, but I’m just so tired of being constantly haunted by her ghost. I’m so, so tired.”