It was a dream
   where I faced you last,
some otherworld
   where your shade
         met mine.
Because what disturbs me
    is not that it might be you,
or from you,
    or of you,
but rather nothing like you
    except the stubborn child
of my mind,
    a child past--
insisting,
    shouting,
         yelling
that your silhouette is something real.

I touched it once,
   knowing it was a dead woman
dreaming.

Somehow, she never
   came back to life.