Dreams

In dreams,

I am always returning.

To what, I can't say.

A house I once knew,

a hand I once held,

the shadow of something

that never quite stood in the light.

And outside, the moon

leans in through the window,

her pale face pressed to the glass,

watching me sleep.

Her gaze an elegy for what is lost,

and what will be.

And the moon goes on,

slipping into other rooms,

other dreams,

leaving behind this soft erasure

of everything I thought I knew.