sometimes I lay awake thinking               about how ten years from now
there will be fewer of us                         and fewer days for me
to spend with you.                                     under Edison bulbs
in honeysuckle gardens,                         mug of camomile tea. yet
even in this dream i see                            how i am colder,
pulling your jacket around me,                      thin skin eyelids,
and the morning glory vine                               less vibrant,
like colors are in memory.

sunset on the pacific                            pink as a newborn
drawing my hand to yours.                       there is nothing gained, you say,
in anticipating misery. we walk             collecting the pearlescent once-homes
of pea-sized creatures                                   to place on bookshelves
and into our palms. grief                                   is this same transmutation
and too prefers to be held,                     to be greeted as a friend,
as if he is                                                      an idea whose time has come.