dream trip

If I cannot kiss your forehead,
place your tired head on my lap
and promise you a trip to Geneva
in the summer again,
                    without my friends,
                   just the two of us,
                   maybe we’ll tell mom,

then a kiss on my wrist where
your heartbeat meets mine
will have to do. Forever.
So many days and nights have
passed since I’ve said
your name out loud –
a denial and so deep
it has taken my voice
and rationality.  
I have resisted calling
out for you not because you
are gone, but because
you are still here,
and to call out for you is
to break that illusion.
(Death makes us all delusional,
irrational, magical beings.)

I admit,
since I cannot kiss your forehead,
or place your tired head on my lap,
since I cannot promise you
a trip           – to Geneva or otherwise,
                   but you would have wanted Geneva,
                   like you always did –

I have given up on almost everything.
These nights, you barely show up
in my dreams, but when you do,
the first thing you always do is hug
me. And in every dream, I am in a
reality where you’ve come back.
It is so easy to believe,
because you are still so real to me.
But since I cannot kiss your forehead,
or your hands – your beautiful
hands
 -, I will tell you
how much I love you when
we’re both alive in my subconscious.
I will tell you nothing has
changed. I will book the flight
to Geneva with my dream money
and take us there.
There is somewhere where you
still exist, and we are happy,
and I say your name out loud still:
                      Baba, you came back to me!
                    Now let’s go catch our flight!

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