Nothing Bad Happened

We were at a diner, splitting a check

the way we used to—

you did the math a little wrong on purpose

and I let you.

The menu was laminated, warped

at one corner, the plastic edge

curled up the way those menus do in August.

I don't remember what I ordered.

I know we laughed about something small.

Not a punchline I can recover.

Just the quality of it—

the way you laugh when nothing's that funny

but you're comfortable enough.

Then I woke up.

4am. The ceiling.

Three years since your funeral

and nothing bad happened in the dream at all.

No last words. No unfinished business.

Just you, getting the tip wrong by two dollars,

and me watching you do it

and thinking: let him.

Let him.