This morning I woke up 

and realized I can no longer call to tell you

about the crazy adventures in my dreams.

I can no longer share every thought that pops into my head.

I can no longer tell you about my weird phobias

or the times I feel queasy before getting on the line for conditioning. 

I can no longer go to your house

and play with all your dogs.

I can no longer sleep on your shoulders 

for hours at a time.

I can no longer ask how you’re doing 

or simply give you a hug.

I can no longer stare into your kind-blue eyes 

that I have looked at since we were 12. 

I can no longer remind you to start your homework

and laugh at you when you say it’s done. 

I can no longer make us bowls of icecream 

to eat while we watch Adam Sandler.

I can no longer remember the last time I told you I love you

or the last time you said it back.

This morning I woke up

and realized that time will heal.