last night i dreamed of how you will die

last night i dreamed of how you will die
without ever having held a frightened bird in your hands
felt the tick of his snowy carriage clock heart
you will die misremembering the sound an eighteen year old summer makes
never having heard grief’s pale whisper in the bonfire leaves
you will die eroded, vitiated, incomplete
the missing parts of all your stories playing white noise on repeat
last night i dreamed of how you will die
betrayed
because i could not keep my promises to you
even though i loved you in every single one of my ways
you will die with skin like paper
pages glowing embers in the fireplace
the smoke will rise up the chimney
the ash will fall down from the sky
and somewhere perhaps i will taste it on my tongue
and know that you once wrote me a snowflake
perfect
just for a time

Rick White is a writer of fiction and poetry from Manchester, UK whose work has appeared in Storgy, Cabinet of Heed, Ghost City Review, and Back Patio Press among others. Rick lives with his wife Sarah and dog Harry and currently occupies third place within the hierarchy. Rick appreciates your support during this difficult time. @ricketywhite.