I have dreams where I'm
speaking to the dying:
filled with distrust,
you told me to leave,
lying in the living room
waiting to die.

"My name," I said.
My eyes
"returning to their sockets",
"my claws"
turning back to fingers,
for a now fake smiling,
fictional copy
of a blurred memory,
of which I offer courtesy;
to you,
to my own
miserable subconscious.

I only remember you
with the mind of a child.
And I wake up haunted,
without knowledge
if the person in my dream
is even alive.