When I close my eyes at night,
and all my limbs go numb, melting into my sheets,
and I finally steady my breathing,
and my brain shuts down; my worries still.
That is when vulnerability creeps over me,
as I drift off to the unexplainable,
where suddenly, my mind is stretched open wide,
inviting in anything and all things.
Like putty, my mental state is soft,
and this is when you choose to talk.
When I am fully open and accepting,
you come say hello.
You tell me you're okay.
And for that second, you aren't really gone.
For the time, I still hear your voice and smell your smell,
and you laugh with me and we talk about life, as if it still exists.
You hug me close,
you tell me how happy you are to see me.
We lament over how awful it would be if it was true;
if you were no longer.
And before we have the chance to say goodbye,
I am shaken awake each time.
But I love that blissful moment of dreaminess,
before I become fully aware of my surroundings.
Because, in that small fraction of a second,
the truth isn't real.
The truth is in what you told me, only moments ago,
that you are still here, and everything is okay.
But when I wake up,
the dark veil that honesty is,
slides back over my eyes,
and smothers me in what I don't want to know.
I go through my days and wonder if you're watching,
I wonder if the talks we have at night are even real.
Like a detective, I try and uncover the messages you send me,
but it's always the same:
There you are,
here I am.
It's okay,
and I'll see you again soon.
In the meantime, I breathe in the daylight,
and ask you, do you visit anyone like you visit me?
But I don't look for the answer,
I just hope you don't stop.
