I dreamt of you the other night:
The white of your neck,
Silhouetted by starry hair,
Your crooked smile seemed to say,
“If you have a problem, deal with it.”
While you moved to a song only you heard,
Golden eyes gleaming with secrets thoughts,
And your sharp personality cutting every word.
But then I remembered,
Your eyes were a pale green,
Like a southern sea after a gale,
You laughed when I said that the first time,
And that made me feel like I was very clever,
While I sipped my coffee and read your stories.
No, wait, they were my stories,
And I don’t think that was you, after all,
Are you the dark-haired artist harboring secrets,
The smiling debutante with the oft-crushed heart?
The pale-eyed firebrand who wept hot in my arms?
The fae-girl who curled into a ball until she vanished?
I wonder, softly, as the dream fades,
Is it worse for your identity to be lost to a maelstrom,
Of a thousand-thousand loves, mixed like cake batter,
To serve as a dessert for an already too-sweet memory?
Or is it worse to be simply forgotten?