This, Too, Shall Leave You Mourning a World That Has Moved On Without You

Last night, I dreamt that I was

an exhibit in a museum of sadness.

As I stepped through the glass, I found

that I was the only witness to myself.

I called your name and heard an echo.

I can’t remember which one of us built

these doorless walls around me.

Like rain, you were there until you weren’t.

No matter how many times I put my wet clothes

through the dryer, I still wake up hoping for a text.

There were two episodes left in season one

of that show. There are so many endings

I will never know or understand. Maybe this world

moved on without me, the tape rolling on and on

as I sit at a table set for ghosts.

In every room, a miscellany of memory

becomes a collage of ache with time,

every word overripe or stale, the sweetness

sickening. Old notes, handwritten.

A half-burned candle. Wilted orchids.

My shoes, filled with new feet.

I dreamt that I followed a trail of your hair

to the edge of the ocean, found you floating

in its wake and swam until we knew each other again,

our wounds mended. Instead, I find salt reopening

each one. You step out of the memory

and leave me here, rewinding tapes,

my name written out of your script.