Seashell

She woke up screaming.

Hands grasping at the ceiling,

she cat-yowled gritty euphemisms

through exposed gnashing bones.

I told her

that dreams have a funny way of turning on you,

I know.

I remember that war.

She said,

I have had one great love

in my life.

It was my great white whale,

so gently malicious,

so epic and small.

Small-breasted and radiant,

she heaved into my palms,

“I still dream about him”

like I was supposed to balance the equation

for her.

She said,

I was so pissed

to be the second girl.

She wanted to be the hour girl,

the days weeks months years

reset your calendar girl,

the plural form of everything girl,

the we our you and I

to eye hand in hand

every strand of your hair memorized girl.

she wanted to learn his favorite food,

his favorite lullaby,

she wanted to only ever hear stories about his

favorite goodbye.

I held her hand

through the honesty

and the shrapnel,

felt her rollicking waves crash

cymbal gentle on my Casper knees.

She fell right through me,

like I was the memory.

Through the dark hours,

I watched her,

my lips blue and cracked.

Her eyes held the ceiling up;

her hands wrung me out of thin air.

So I stopped.

Turned.

Breathed.

The scales were never

in my favor.

I could never hope to compete

with that kind of grief.

 

When she licks her lips and 

tastes heartbreak,

there I will be,

reminding her that the sound of my voice

is tidal.

I will tell her,

when the seashell is pressed to her ear,

I have loved you more

than most,

and I will love you most

of more

and greater than great.

and I will hope that

just once

she hears me.