Me... with the memory of you

I dreamt about you again last night.

One of those strange visions that felt like a memory

but wasn’t. 

You and I were in a museum,

looking at the bones of history

and stumbling through the passages of silence. 

I had my coat tucked under my arms; your hand was in your pocket. 

I lingered at the placard,

hesitating to move on

hoping that you might brush my sleeve as you passed. 

When I looked up you were gone

and I tiptoed through the glass display cases

searching for you.

Room through room I chased you. 

Your presence wafted behind

like the scent of fresh rain

in the arid day. 

But all I found were the faces of strangers

and monsters’ remains. 

I discovered you in the gift shop,

amongst the toys and kitsch. 

You’d stumbled upon an old friend

who was going to take you away from me. 

I was jealous.

I always was. 

But all I could do was stand there looking stupid,

and watch you walk away. 

As you stepped out into the daylight

the glass doors caught your shape. 

I thought I saw you holding something in your hands…

and I watched another moment of chance fade away.

I awoke

feeling unsettled and spent.

Your ghost still haunting my conscious thoughts.

Like always, it seems:

Me...

with the memory of you.