Dreams

This might not be a poem. I do not know what it is that is that a poem makes, but it will have love, this one - this one that I'm making. And love... Two swans with their long necks intertwined and a ring I'd like to put on your finger sum' day. Hm, and also that song which reminds me That you are not here and that makes me ask "Maybe I love you." Or maybe it's "Baby, I love you." Let us begin with a question, What if dreams are the glimpses of the other lives that we are living In those meta-universes and elseworlds whose existence we've only pondered? What does it matter? what if I say that I've dreamt of us together. And to be quite blunt, I was sure I was pleased, and you seemed quite content. I held your hand, or rather we've held each other. "Fingers lodged like branches in the river" and it was no burden. The burden is in waking up. I wake up and that song plays on the radio, and you are not with me. But "Baby, I love you." I wonder if you've dreamt of us two... too... Wouldn't it be a bother if dreams were more than dreams and What we've seen would be just as real as cake. I can be the eggs and you be the flower. We're all we need to be sleeping awake. Then I remember that song. It tells me you're not here. It plays on and on as I rise from my bed, What does it mean to wake up alone, to face the fear that you've been dreaming all on your own?