Sometimes it feels like my life is full of half-finished things

and I want to blame you the fact that you died

but I think that I was broken like this before you left

born this way, I guess

heat and fire and a wave that breaks a mile from shore

always falling short into sandcastles of pallid ash and silted foam onto hard wet sand

Mom told us that dreams are the universe trying to talk. And then Grandma, for no real reason other than her dementia, I guess, went on one of her rants, right after she got done watching an episode of Planet Earth, about how each and every thing that happens to us in our dreams has a specific meaning. And if you ever catch yourself dreaming of birds, that means you’re going to die. That’s what she said. Lots of birds, lots of death. And then later on, smoking a joint with my older brother, Marcus, on the roof, he turned to me, the web of capillaries in his eyes already beginning to break red, and he said that birds are the only thing he can ever remember having dreams about.

And then we both laughed.