Moonlight trembles

in silvered pools on the grass,

and we are dancing.

I didn’t know you could waltz, you murmur;

I didn’t know either.

It is a slow melody, and

we are in each other’s arms forever:

a full step back, to the side, half a step forward.

I do not even sense the futility

of the motion,

the losing of ground with each measure of the music.

Light and shadow cross your face.

Though I know

this is a dream,

you have never been so real.

Moonlight fades into jet black.

You fade too,

into the shadow, and

the music slowly dissolves.

But I still hold you in my mind.

And I hold in my hand

the pen you once gave me.

I am at my desk, humming,

and I am filled with you. Before me

is pure white paper.

The words flow onto the page.

I am waltzing with my pen, with my memory.

I watch myself as I write—it is never this easy

when I am awake.

I strain to see the words I have written,

but the ink fades, and

my pen, the sheet, my arm and my desk,

all fading into white,

and then my dream is gone and

I am awake.

Across the room

your black dress hangs

on the back of the door.

You missed it when you were packing

the day you left.

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