For years, I dreamt of you.
Where we would meet,
and what would I feel.
If it would take time or happen all at once.
How old we would be,
and what your friends would call you.
Whether your eyes would evoke memories of deep Pacific waters or steady chestnut hills,
and if there would be obsidian or silver locks atop your head.
Impatient
I tempted fate,
signing up for events where our paths were likely to cross.
Anxious
I controlled details,
coordinating dates and times when we might meet.
Naive
to think it would work like that.
You became a reality without my permission.
It was late on a Friday night.
So late that I am left unsure whether it was February 3rd or 4th.
I arrived
first, with a friend telling me about you on the way over.
I knew we were both in our twenties, you slightly older,
but that was it. No name or description.
Beads of sweat dripped down my spine as I adjusted my gown and fastened my hair. Then
you arrived
with an entourage,
making my heart hammer hard and fast.
Disrespectful,
considering yours could not.
Compressions replaced contractions
until the algorithm told us to stop.
Your death announced.
It was supposed to be different;
generations apart,
worn, wrinkled,
your name
and
your story
indelibly etched into the walls of my heart.
Remembered,
never forgotten.
Instead it was onto the
next patient, leaving
you tucked away and folded neatly in the corner.
Why was that so easy?
It’s not supposed to be that easy.
It was only when I tucked myself away
at 3am in the amber glow of the bathroom
that I felt you
tapping me on the shoulder.
Two tears on two cheeks,
wiped away but
never forgotten.
For years, I will dream of you.