I had a dream I wrote you a letter. I kept trying to write your name. It wasn’t working. Then I tried to write you how I felt. But the ink turned to glittery gelatinous glue and melted into the page. I read somewhere once that you can’t read words in dreams. I knew what I wanted to say to you but I couldn’t write the words. In the dream I missed your call. I called you back at seven in the morning.

“Hey, I’m sorry I missed your call.” I said, my voice scratchy from just waking up.

“I called you three days ago. I’m getting ready for work now.” You said, annoyed.

It was too late. I was too late. We were too late for each other. I couldn’t find a sink to wash my hands in.

I’m not dreaming anymore and it’s the same story. I still can’t find the words and my eyes hurt from crying and reading and missing parts of myself and you.

I’ll write that letter one day. I’ll mail it or burn it. I’m not sure which one. I’ll let you know or maybe I won’t, because I don’t have the words.