It's curious how in a dream the seeing faces that I haven't seen
for so long can wake me as a brilliant light
that then once filtered through the cobwebs
turns it's glow from shining white
to tarnished yellow
As reality descends to say
it was but a dream.
But for a while I got to talk with her.
Be close again and almost touch.
I got to ask the question she'd ignored so long
and this time,
both together we discuss the why of why it turned out
how it turned out.
But that doesn't make the waking less bitter-sweet.
And so I crawl from under quilts
into the morning, dressing,
looking down upon the compromise I made.
Who stirs as if she feels me staring,
Second-guessing all that might have been.
It wasn't her fault I chose not to wait,
that in my frustration I saw that pretty body
and decided that I'd make the first
regret her indecision.
She couldn't make me wait forever,
like some puppeteer's appendage.
So I showed her.
Drew a line across the sand
and listened to her say congratulations
with a hint of sorrow in her voice. I think I heard the sorrow.
I know I heard it.
But that was years ago
and now the hollowness of all that might have been
seems stuffed with obligations
which consume my time and don't allow me opportunities
to think of her
or miss the smile
except unless I sleep too deep
and have my dreams invaded.