At night, asleep, I see her in a garden:
Her dancer’s stately walk, and pensive mien,
And feeling as though I should beg her pardon,
For holding on to something she’d cut clean.
But she – she cannot see, nor can she hear me:
This is a dream, but still she’s out of reach,
And I, a fool, a mere thing of convenience,
Can’t move her anymore by act, or speech —
And even in my dreams, I find no comfort,
Just watching her in gardens of regret,
And knowing in the morning, I’ll still love her,
While she my name and face will soon forget.
And I recall friends telling me, “let go.”
But still, so many nights of this dumb show