the only place
i can see her
is on the rare evenings
i manage to sleep
where once she was
tangible and real
she became a dream
which was something
she never intended to be

last night
it was a stray lock
of golden hair
my every fiber longed
to tuck behind her ear
as i fell into her
deep brown eyes
only to be woken
by thunder and
seeking another chance
to kiss her lips
the ache sounding out
in the depths where
insomnial longing
stirs the abyss

i cannot tell which
leaves me more despondent
the witching hour
where i seek a portal
back to dreams of her
or the quiet mornings
in which i am too aware
it is i who doesn’t exist
chasing spectres in a
haze of absentee dementia