I saw you in a dream again. A facsimile of a life lived, disconnected from memory and substance. I miss the person I knew, whose existence brought real and tangible moments. Instead, I only have my dreams of you. But such dreams are a cruel kind of torture. I welcome these dreams, if only to get a glimpse of you again. And yet, it’s infinitely disappointing. For the dream can never fulfill the reality of you. Hollow and void, it lacks the spirit of who you were. An empty face created by my wishful thinking.
How is that you still bring me tears after all these years? I often cry in my dreams, tears forever lost in the deep recesses of my mind. Tears as empty as my mind’s copy of you. I wish I knew what power prompts these dreams of you. Should I be thankful that you live on in my dreams? Because for a moment my dream of you brought us together again. All I have are dreams now.
I remember you, who you were, and perhaps still are, before the time you went away. What does one dream beyond the veil of existence? Do you dream of me as I dream of you? Perhaps what you have of me is more real than what I have of you, which is currently nothing more than a fleeting shadow. I wish for more, to enjoy your presence in the fullness of life. To see you without fearing the constant disappointment brought by morning’s erasure.
I’m sure I’ll see you again in my dreams, though it won’t really be you. But I can, even if it’s only for a brief moment, imagine otherwise.