I woke up, dead. I dead, woke up. I woke up the dead. I woke up and you, dead, woke up. No, I woke up, and you, dead, did not. You, dead, did not roll over to sock me in the shoulder until I turned off the alarm. I, not dead, snoozed my alarm until I was late to work. I woke up dead and you did not wake and at the table I sat, dead, eating a fried egg and egging on the brain fried online. Up, up here, not dead, I am down for anything today. Strangers making eye contact, I can do that. Elevator’s full of people with elbows that jab into my ribs, I can do that. I can do not dead things. I sat at the table and you, dead, sat across from me. You looked wrong, your head lolling to the side. You are up to something, I know that. I know you are trying to surprise me. Dead, you are. I am. I read a book when I was a kid and failed grammar class. Eats, Shoots, and Leaves. Punctuation matters. Punctuation changes how a life is described. I try to write a sentence that will bring you back, but I can’t. I want to wake you up, wake up, wake up the dead, but instead my days are punctuated with remembering.