[ I had a dream that you found out I wasn't dead ]

I had a dream that you found out I wasn't dead
and you weren't angry anymore.
I did it for you, anyway - 
like that time we got high in your backyard
while your mother went shopping
and your brother played on the swings.

You told me once
that the truth isn't always factual
and I think I understand it now;
it has something to do with
how you can never define what you're feeling
but those nights you could see your breath,
a car crash in red and black and chrome,
the edge at your fingers until you're coloring red on your skin,
makes you feel it all again anyway.

The song that played Russian roulette with my confidence
every time you called; I lost, but - 
were we supposed to be keeping score?
The truth is we were haunted already,
falling asleep drunk at sunrise
in the house with the dead girl's room upstairs - 
but that comes later.

For now I'm just sorry
about the blood on my clothes, about
the fingerprints bruised on the side of your neck,
sorry this is all my truth and I took the knife from you.
I took the knife for you, and anyway - 
I guess I've been keeping score.

I remember everything,
even if not the facts of it, even if
just a reflection of the thought of it:
the look on your face when you realized
I couldn't make it mean something except exactly what it was;
the way we find comfort in the familiarity
of our vintage desperation;
the knowledge that we are better
for all of our defeat, all agonizing for acknowledgment
and your silence saying everything in reply.