Just so long as
there's an ocean
I'd drink future saltwater with Rebecca
and it'd be
so cold
in 2037
that she'd forget her
carcinogen fever
long enough to sample the Virginia sunrise
she never lived long enough to
taste.
We'd slow dance
to invisible music in brightly colored
rooms.
Her cheeks would hurt
from smiling so much
at dirty jokes and the struggling beauty of
baby sea turtles.
We'd eat ice cream for breakfast, lunch, and dinner
and when she reaches
for her IV,
there'd be
silver pixie dust
instead of a warm remedy for death
on our day.
