When he came to her in dreams,
when the moon cast its midnight curtain
over the earth,
it was the little things she tried to remember.
The way his big hands
held little hands.
The tilt of his head
and the question in his eyes
when she told him that she was not coming back.
The feel of his fingertips brushing across her cheek.
It was always the same dream.
Always the same.
He was gone when she woke up.
The curtain was drawn back
and the light does not like ghosts.
They only come out at night.
In dreams.
Pains.
Tears.
Cries.
When would the joy come?
This was what she
longed for,
hoped for.
This was what she
longed for,
hoped for?
This wasn’t what she imagined.
He was what she imagined
and he was real.
This was real, too.
More real than him.
But he was gone.
The light was too bright.
She wanted someone to close the curtain.
Then he might come.
Still a dream.
