(an older poem of mine that is currently going through the revision train)
She is the one who texted me one night to say that she thought she might be dying.
She kept dreaming of a city built of soda cans and
popsicle sticks. She dreamt she was in love with a man who had
bottle caps for eyes. She dreamt that I wrote the epitaph
for her gravestone but I wrote it in some dead tongue that no one
cared enough to translate. She told me that she woke up angry with
me and I apologized for the dream-me; it had sounded like something
I might do in another life.
She’s the one whose car flipped twice across an icy road.
She always hated the cold .She was alone
on the coldest night of the year. She’s the one that they found with the
blood on her hair turned to ice. She couldn’t have felt her blood
stop pumping. She must have been so pale out there waiting to
be discovered. She’s the one in the ground. She is under my feet.
She has an epitaph picked out by someone. She’s alone and I
can’t read the words. She seems so far away carved
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