A Dream, a Note, and Dream Again

i'm sitting on the picnic table where we had our first real conversion. it's afternoon, near sunset, and everything is picturesque.

no, no.

no, not quite right. it's not picture-like, the scene seen through my dream, the "dreamscape", is nearly animated. it is perfect, but not quite real.

leaves are falling, slower than they would in real life, slower than i imagine would be possible in anything but in this dream. it's fall, and in my dream, it becomes dark super quickly.

too quickly.

it's dark now, early dark, and i look over the eastern horizon to see the yellow moon glowing behind the hazy autumn night.

harvest moon, i think in my dream.

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i remember that first conversation, that first night i really talked to you, and knew that i was meant to meet you. meant to learn from you, to be friends, to be.

we talked about everything that we seemed we could, and everything seemed without limitation.

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in my dream, i am sitting, watching.

watching maybe, the dreamscape is still night. still september.

and i hear your voice, you're quiet.

no, i think, just afraid.

but why? my dream-self thinks.

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again, a sudden shift and the moon turns red. the blood moon, and it is october.

i realize that i am holding something in my hands, a book. i know, in my dream, where everything is heading. i am still sitting on the bench where we had our first real conversation more than two years before.

i look down at the books cover, and in my dream, i smile. it is harry potter and the half blood prince.

i look back up, and i feel the smile vanish, and know why your not there, in my dream i do at least.

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**
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rockie,

this is not a creepy dream or anything. no awkwardness, not that i intentionally put out there at least. i think, by how i felt as i woke is that you were just gone. that we didn't talk, or something happened, or something.

not sure exactly what.

i think, honestly, i feel... well, i am not sure how i feel.

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**
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i have been working on a poem called "dream again" for the last seven or so years. monday night i finished it, and feel, finally, as if i can truly come up with new ideas writing now.

that even though all the whispering voices from the dead that come from underneath my bed are here to stay, maybe they are meant to be heard.

because, after all, nothing ventured, nothing gained.

it is evolutions cruelest joke.