You still dream of her face (sometimes):
An unfamiliar loving kind, though, baptized in healthy shame after the executor’s call interrupts her celebration with repossessed friends,
Informed that hundreds of thousands in US currency
Peeled off your muscle and policy, splashing her with sticky, uncomfortable guilt.
On the first June 25th you miss since first opening your eyes,
her skin and dinner dress go briny confetti.
She removes all of it
after the funeral, after two days, after-party;
Her conscience hustles drunken apologies and frustrated tears and a brand new genuine feeling, rather than its usual effortless defense of her reputation.
You still dream of her dream of you (sometimes),
Finally rather than almost, making good on your word.
You still dream of her loving you (sometimes),
Finally that way she never did.
A missed opportunity or great loss to humanity, but most importantly her.
You still dream of her context changing,
“I can’t take care of you anymore”
screamed ironically as
“I can’t take care of you anymore,”
makeup and sanity smeared
wake-up on the oak floor
In so much confetti.
The repossessed friends should know
You’re really drowning, but recklessly don’t.
They should toast her waking moments, ignorant of your lonely Scotch ocean swims and her dreams.
They should toast to no regrets and orgasms.