Lost and found

For about ten minutes today, I was convinced that "lost and found" was just another name for the game "hide and go seek." Thanks for nothing, perimenopause brain!

Part of a very chaotic collage. It’s sufficiently dream-like, right? Or nightmare-adjacent?

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I keep having dreams about you. At first, it was just 
once a year or so. A chance meeting, passing each other 
in the gauzy hallway. But lately, it’s all the time
and it’s long conversations, us fixing what was broken. 
I get to see your tattoos in person
and you trace the black bracelet of my mine.

Your hair is still yellow and long, the color of a crayon sun
and we’re not middle-aged (am I ever in my dreams?).
We’re girls again, oak bunkbeds, playing with stuffed animals
and Cabbage Patch Kids. We’re making murder stories
for our Barbies with nail polish blood. Our Breyer horses, 
born with their manes molded by the wind, win every race. 
When their legs break, we glue them on again
always a little crooked.

When I wake, I wonder if I should try to call you.
If you can forgive me in this life. 
Without even trying, I’ve forgiven you.