I can still see you
lying on the bed in front of me,
legs spread wide as eyes;
you gasp, a whisper.
Your taste is unforgettable.
I drink your warm, dank wine,
its scent filling my nostrils,
a bud now fully blossomed.
My hand is behind your head
pressing us together,
two small gears working one greater,
skin grafting to skin, a mess of humanity.
Is it any wonder I dream
dreams of you, dreaming of me?
You were once my dream within a dream,
but I have awoken, alone.
I imagine someday I will find you
waiting for me in that old cafe
reading the tattered fantasy I left you,
wishing it was about us.
It is about us,
a canon roaring in battle,
hitting target with deafening fury,
an uneasy silence lingering in its wake.
We are its wake,
two made one made two again.
No amount of fantasy or sleep
will wake that old dream from its slumber.