I Hate Prophetic Dreams

I lied about life is strange, so here, have a poem. Mind you, it’s not fun. I’d appreciate prayer for the subject of the poem.

I Hate Prophetic Dreams
You’re in a hospital bed
With a single friend by your side
And I’m on the other end
Of a phone 300 miles away.
You texted, “Call me”
Half an hour ago, but I didn’t
And then when I did,
You didn’t answer
Because you were bleeding
With shattered glass on the floor
And a single friend by your side.
She says, “I’m glad you called,”
And “Come visit soon,”
But we both know I won’t
Because it’s just a dream
And it’s ending soon.
But when it does,
I barely know it’s over
And my first thought is
Absolute devastation.
So I text you in the haze of sleep
“I just had a dream that you attempted suicide,”
And you ask, “Are you feeling ok?”
“Have you told anyone else about this?”
But I haven’t.
You say, “I would never do that,”
But was that another lie?
Because you tell me now
“I was in a really, really dark place,”
You say, “I am and was
A suicide risk.”
You say, “I’m getting better,”
But how can I not worry
When I know how this ends?
Because you were bleeding
With shattered glass on the floor
And a single friend by your side.