I am drowning in unfound languages,

in the Morse code you left on my skin

the last time you touched me.

Once, in sixth grade, I knew a boy

who created honey.

He asked me—if the world wasn’t ending,

what could all this color possibly mean?

I was afraid and naive, so I told him

it meant we are only as real as our dreams.

That night, he dreamt a storm,

and then the peace.

I felt him asking for help.

I am so ashamed I did nothing.

When I eat honey,

I know I am killing him.