Still trying

I was helping him drink.

His tongue in the bowl,

the water I kept pouring

disappearing before he could

reach it.

Not dark.

Not violent.

Just the two of us

in the dream's patient

sadness.

I kept trying.

He kept trying.

The water went somewhere—

evaporated, drained away,

the dream's quiet refusal.

I woke up with the feeling

of futility still wet

on my hands.

He's been gone three years.

But in the dream

he was still here.

Still thirsty.

Still old.

And I still couldn't

save him.