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.



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