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dream in which i'm at the old house and my bed is sinking into the floor. when i go to your closet i fall into the crisp linen of your button-up shirts. the cologne on the counter. the day after you'd gone all i could do was listen to the birds, the city somehow stopped silent by the absence of you. i laid in bed for hours like that, struck still and unable to will my feet to touch the ground. years ago you told me that you had felt your father's presence in the field and though you had stopped believing in god you still kept a cross on your night stand. only now do i understand that you were stuck living in the hereafter, all the days now a reminder of what you would give to go back to that last summer afternoon where your father held your shoulder by the creek. for me it was july, raspberry pie on the couch. i was playing dylan on my guitar and just knowing that you were in the yard outside is a feeling i will chase in all of my hereafters. now, everything is winter. and the better parts of my life are dreams in which nothing happens.
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