Julianne 

the treasure of you is in the way

your black, black hands painted eggshell white

are held together by strained pale skin

desperate veins seem to lose energy, sad, the struggle ended

a long time ago but you kept going,

up until two am every night on some project you won’t tell me about and  if it were anyone else I’d say,

Why, you’re not doing anything at all

and then you’re late the next day with

all my tears on the inside because I’m old now,

because I’m used to waiting.

the treasure of you is how when you’re not here

I clasp your eggshell hands in my skeletal grip

and you can’t stop me

because you’re nowhere near.

(yet you’re here)

 

this is a toast

to your bleary lidded eyes

and the wrinkles that support them.

We are here to commemorate your two closest friends,

reluctant wakefulness and

crying out in your sleep.

It seems we are not able to rest easy together, so

please join me in my dreams.

 

You seemed as though you’d like to stay

but as sure as my departure in the morning

is your dedication to the night.

Welcome to my dreams-

please make yourself at home-

tomorrow, I’ll raise a glass to your distant work

and I’ll make that toast alone.