I must write you in faint hope again
for I saw you in a dream once more.
A flash of hair, dancing in the wind…
the palm of your hand reaching out to my own.
Yet I woke as I neared illusion
swearing I was caught by your scent of chamomile,
dreaming of the day for which I’d pay
with the whole of my future’s promises.
You are fleeting thunder,
dawning at the edge of my despair,
shining a light on my heart’s desires,
setting ablaze the shards of sanity.
But you never come home.
So your ghost haunts my head
as I try to make sense of this.
But you’re not a means to catharsis.
You just were, and now are not.