Last night

Last night I

dreamed about

you for the

last time.

 

So strange, how

we spoke for

hours, like we

never have.

 

Perhaps once.

 

Wordless, I

remember

sitting on

your sofa,

just us two

together,

and the shock

when you reached

over and

held my hand.

 

Electric.

 

It felt like

forever,

although I

know it was

only as

long as that

downloaded

copy of

Planet Claire.

 

It was like

suddenly

trying to

balance a

glass full to

the brim of

the clearest

water, not

wanting to

spill a drop,

to lose the

tiniest

part of you.

 

I was still,

scared stiff, lost

and praying,

trying to

capture the

essence of

us, there, then.

 

There was a

universe

in your touch

and I would

like you to

know (although

I never

told you) that

inside I

was dancing.

 

Perhaps you

knew all this.

Perhaps not.

 

When I dream

of you, I

am confused

for the whole

day after.

 

I know it

is not real.

 

You are an

archetype,

virtual,

and therefore

you are pure.

It is you

but not you.

I know this.

 

It is me.