This is all a beautiful lie

I wake up to the smell of pancakes

my boyfriend is making breakfast
while humming billy idol. His hair is a mess
and he is half naked.
I should be thanking
the architect, who ever that might be,
for scheming up his cheekbones, his long road of spine,

but I have no idea where to find him.
In this dream there is only vague scenery
and strong backlighting from the sun—

a pristine halo all around him
as he flips the cakes while I feed our fluffy dog.
The night before he had been out with the guys

drinking. His red jeep newly repaired. Shiny
with boy laughter and good ole fun. The storm
last night was a killer but at the bar who cares after a few

too many beers. I remember saying come over after boo-boo
(my sick nickname for him) after you drop the boys off.
Instead a call came to come to the hospital

there had been an accident and blah blah blah,
but let’s not dwell
on that or the room that smelled like alcohol

and young interns fresh out of med school.
Lets get back to the dream, the part where he
is standing in my kitchen shoveling food on my plate

And kissing my forehead, then my lips,
then reaching over me
for the syrup. I reach for his hand

and it is always so cold, colder than I want it to be.