i’m sorry that i didn’t try harder when we were ice skating by emma burden

I have always dreamed in short sonatas, 
tempo at prestissimo,
my imagined states coming and going,
forgetting them as I wake.

You came to me in one of these,
short, fast-paced states in between
sleeping and waking
the thoughts after death and of our current reality.

There was a scar between your breasts, 
poking up from a gray t-shirt, 
wrinkled but pressed, and then again too short on you
I think I was in one of those strange dreams where it feels like you aren’t wearing anything
where it feels as if your feet aren’t touching the floor, and when you wake up your hands are cold.

You sat on the edge of my dorm bed, 
kicking your feet before folding them beneath you, 
and I cried as I held you, listening to your voice, not knowing what the words were,
and you were you, exactly as I’d left you, with thin framed glasses and a wide smile and red lips,
you wanted to go roller skating, your favorite activity in mania.

We talked about our trip to Philadelphia, 
and how we couldn’t wait to catch up in the car,
gliding together on roller skates and laughing at my crush on someone too old,
you weren’t worried about graduate school, or spending too much money, or about your flirtation that didn’t work,
you were genuinely happy.

I cried the entire dream, 
even as we exited any form of reality, going bowling on our skates and then, 
riding in an elevator with my childhood enemy
there was no one there to hurt you, not even yourself, even though you had told me that you had been suffering,
you weren’t any more. 

It was the longest dream I have ever had, 
regressing back to adagio,
you’d know these terms better than me—I still listen to the audio of you playing piano,
and I don’t know if you’re alive or dead,
I don’t know if you’re still in pain, or if you’re stable, happier, something other than cool blue or warm red fire coursing through your shallow veins.

You said that you would call me if you had a phone, 
it’s been three weeks and two days,
every morning I find myself counting.

And if you ever read this, I hope it goes by as quickly as my dreams,
because it’s embarrassing for me to admit any of this onto a page,
that you’re my only real friend, that I thought I had died when I woke up,
I hope you don’t feel guilty,
we both know it was for the best,
but I can’t stop having worried thoughts swirl through my head.

Every night, I pray you’re happy,
that you’re not in a sterile room alone, 
and that you get to watch your favorite movies and sing soprano songs,
that you get to eat yummy food and stretch your legs in grass,
and selfishly I pray that you’ll return to me, and that you’ll still be yourself when I meet you again.