Dreams can be such odd things,
such palpable occurrences in
the unconscious and subconscious
that can dissolve with the mere
opening of one eye and check of the clock,
or they’ll cling to you for days, years,
after performing for a minute in
your defenseless mind.
I never worried about dreams, except
for not having any, for many of those
remembering years. My mind ceded them
to the attic like I did comic books,
once-cherished things now kept
in dusty boxes as their colors faded.
But now they’ve returned, the dreams,
playing out like these graphic novels.
And you’re back with them, as hero
or antagonist I’ve yet to tell.
I’m just stunned by your appearance
so real in my Sleeping Beauty fantasy,
creeping up behind me, dressed in
daffodil yellow, whispering a mystery
and leaving the whisper of a kiss
upon my cheek. Then wake, one eye
on the clock again telling me
it’s always too late.