The Nights He Visits

Drew,

you’ve been gone for years now,

but my dreams still know your address.

For the first twelve months,

you came every night—

like we had an unspoken deal

that death was only a border,

not a wall.

Now, you visit less—

a few times a month—

but each time,

I wake with the weight of you still in my hands.

Last night we were in a circle of friends,

joking about the myth

that drugs make artists greater—

I spoke in sarcasm,

because I don’t need that poison.

But I forgot, in that moment,

that you were dead.

And then—

you looked at me with that soft half-smile,

the one that used to break open my whole chest,

and you said,

“Yeah… it’s not that bad.”

And it hit me—

the remembering.

The truth rushing back like cold water.

My throat closed.

I reached for you,

and your hand found mine,

solid, warm.

I put my head in your palm,

and I broke.

Sobs that had been hiding for months

escaped all at once.

You rubbed the back of my head,

slow and steady,

and I could feel it—

God, I could feel it—

like skin against skin,

like you’d never left.

I woke with wet cheeks,

my chest caving inward.

The air was empty again,

but my scalp still remembered the shape of your hand.

You were my twin with my eyes,

my best friend,

the other half of a sentence

I’ll never get to finish.

And even in dreams,

we both know you’re gone.

But you still come.

And I still reach.