In dreams the dead visit.
I welcome their arrival—at times even courting them.
See you in my dreams, I whisper, trusting they will acquiesce.

They slip in quietly,
foisting themselves between
less memorable sleep shows.
Scenes change.
And they are with me.

James rarely speaks.
Aloof.
I chase after him without running or
quickening my step.
I hover.
He continues simply being;
As if I am the ghost in his dreams.

Ma dies repeatedly.
Oblivious to her mortality
she frets,
argues,
roams.
She refuses my tending,
dismisses my tears.

Awake as in dreams
The dead are with me.
I cherish their haunting
For it is all I have left.

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