The Dead Pour Me Out Like Tea

I am dead to many, a few are dead to me. I am not forgotten by girls in green silk sarongs, (though those also might be dead, or dead to me, for in my dreams they still pour me out like tea. Some dead have tiptoed over a cliff, their lips forever duct-taped together a falling silence yet to land. Some I fish for in sunny Koi ponds, they surface but never take my bait. The dead are still drunk on themselves, as I am. My reconstructed world is shrinking, memories stiffening. I throw down a rope made of helical vines, haul up the dead, breathe life into my own mouth.