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
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
but I couldn’t understand
a word you said.