What do you day dream of?I daydream of you; of your answer when I ask you this; of whether you will tell me the truth, or change the subject. Of your eyes. Of your hands. Of what has never been, of what could perhaps be.
I search my mind for what else I dream of; answers are obscure.
Do I dream of a future self, a poet perhaps, someone who has emerged from the fog? But she is not me; and I am not the girl of fifteen, twenty years before. I see her through a glass, darkly, that girl. She has never looked up and called to me; I was not a part of her, and her tendrils in me are deeply buried, too deep for me to examine and untangle.
Who were you back then? It saddens me that I am cut off forever from so much of you, of who you were for so many years. That is why, perhaps, I so want to know all of you now, to absorb everything I can and fix you in my memory as full as you are, before you have drifted away and all I have of you are the memories I can conjure.
You are not a memory I ever want to be buried.
