You're happy. Visibly so. There is an ease settled into your shoulders and a soft smile lines your face. You look healthy and svelte and handsome. You walk around my kitchen holding your new infant. Your wife, Holly, is by your side. Her eyes burn with devotion. She wears a burgundy velvet skirt, the same color as her hair. Your free arm is around her waist. I'm relieved to see you both... alive.
I think about how I look to you and whether or not I brushed my hair. I think about applying lipstick. You ask me what I've been up to lately. Have I made anything new? How's the garden? Am I still biking? I watch the questions spill from your mouth. I know whatever I say you'll be ok with. For a change. You look at your baby and chuckle.
These dreams of a sweeter you are regular. They help to resolve my ache. After you tried to kill yourself. After I searched for your body on the railroad tracks. After I called you a privileged white man. After our final words were typed to each other. After we both pressed "send."