I dreamed of you last night, but not in the good way.

I stood alone in a closet next my living room,

a Sharpie (standard, black) slipping repeatedly

from my weakening fingers.

Frustrated, I called you,

railed again about the

pointlessness

of my existence.

“Sing like a monk,” you said in a voice

slurred with three sleepless nights

of hard liquor.

“You mean Gregorian chant?”  I needed

clarification,

but I couldn’t understand

a word you said.

-DMN