headboard headstone

i dreamt a bunkbed walked over green hills with tall legs that grew into a tree. it became as tall as the sky. taller than where birds could fly, but one sickly bird made a nest on the headboard. a headboard over a headstone over the grave that used to hold a bear. the bird's words shoot like shoots and the sprouts and roots that dug down, and dug up the bear's heart in it's buried treasure chest. it died of congestive failure, they said. and lack of treasure. i wondered if i'd ever add up to enough for her. i went to bed with my nose all stuffy from crying. a congestion from conversations that are never ending. always arguing. one word piling on top of the other until our voices both sound like a loud crowded room. i love you's and i'm sorry's travel down red strings like veins that hold no blood. our words can't even make it to eachother's ears.
we die every night, it seems.