I had a dream that you were crying while mom boiled the water for your milk and measured it into the glass,
but when she came back downstairs with the nourishment you so desperately craved it wasn’t a dream
even though I was still dreaming and you were still crying with mom frustrated that I had slept through all those wails.
I heard you through the fog of sleep, but it was a sound far away and removed from the soundtrack
of that other world clouded in cotton that couldn’t quite be breached like a damask somnambular fence.
I wish I had woken and done my best to soothe your cries, as always, wishing I could give you every comfort before the cruelty of living tightens its grip,
but I slept on and instead dreamed of a removed soundtrack no more than white noise in the background.