Like words scribbled on your palm;
reminders that seemed important once,
but faded too quickly.

Wash your hands
of the residue, please.

Perhaps we were seeds 
from the same apple, but now
we are trees; 

branches reaching out,
roots digging deep.

I Blame the Wine Last Night

I had a dream about you. It was all kinds of strange and sweet.

It was the end of the world, and you held my hand. I felt it, your fingers in between mine; the grooves on your palm, the ridges on your fingertips. 

There was a gathering on a field - perhaps a soccer field? (it does bear a significance). Throngs of people fell in lines that led to makeshift booths scattered around the clearing. We all had to register for some sort of Exodus, but we all knew (the way you feel things in your dream-guts) that it was for the end. 

The sky was a different shade of overcast. We knew the Lord was coming to destroy the earth, and our mothers were calmly mouthing prayers and fingering rosaries.

We all waited for our turn to sign our names, and once we did, we went back to our cars to go home and wait for the end.

My whole family was already in our white van when you came up to me. Behind you was yours, and it was empty (I dream-thought you were here with your family?). 

We’ve always wanted to do this. Do you want to ride with me one last time? You asked.

I trust the Lord, I told you with great certainty. This is not the end, trust me.

You reached out, grabbed my hand and held it tight. 

Then I woke up. Is it sad that I’m hoping you had the same one?