a poem a day for a year #78

I don't dream of you anymore
hardly ever
you are dead for sure
stripped from any part of my life
I don't have photographs
paper ephemera scrappy bits
evidence that you used to take air into your living lungs 
that you were glossy and kind and pulsating
proof you waved your hand to me
like a white flag

I don't dream of you
I just see you occasionally
in the broad shoulders of boys
in crowds at shopping malls
at the park with my children
leaning against the swing set
smiling into the sun
pushing your hand through
the long hair of teenage dreams