242. I dream about my lover.

We are not speaking.
I am many colors
when he appears.
First, a diner, a bar,
my front lawn. He does not give
me his voice. I do not want to look up,
do not want to see how close
our bodies are. If I do, once,

he says, You broke my heart.
I begin:
No, no
that's not the way it happened,
and that is not the way
you would say it. 
But his voice
is already gone and I
am walking down the street. He follows,
staying behind, he thinks I can't see him
and every time we are on this road,
it is erupting in green, new.
Nobody has touched this yet.
No cars, everything is growing into
where it is supposed to be.

Then, it is a new room
and he has turned into someone else.
Something more tender, more present.
We tie ourselves together with thin pieces
of silver, kiss each others' wrists goodnight.
We are afraid of waking up
and forgetting.
In the morning, he's changed again,
a small dead bird, and I go outside
and mourn to the first stranger I find.
I wrap his body in plastic,
worry out loud that his soul hasn't gotten out yet,
that he won't be able to come back
to me as something else,

but I have nothing better
to bury him in.