Do you remember when there was no such thing as time and we were all that were? Sitting, laying, touching, laughing, and loving one another in-between my life and yours. Your life, your family and your home; years that defined you, people who loved you and a refuge from humanity and all that was false in your eyes, your dark lovely eyes. And mine, stability built up from a cliffs edge, devotion and love- caring for blood that defined what home was to me; no walls or place. Moments and feelings that I treasure and recall are what we have, and I find that they are not enough to fill the days without you...

My dreams of a family, of solid ground, that I won't be left alone or forced to roam as so many have before me. I wonder about your dreams and what they might be. But our time has been too brief; I barely know you. But I do know of you and some parts come through our distance and space. Which lead me to believe that you don't have dreams, not truly, not like I do. Just as your sleep is not visited by flashing pleasantries, your conscious state isn't either...

Is it?

In a moment fully and only allowing contentment, as long as you have control. And when you don't clutching to stave off admitting a black mood; acknowledging only furthering it's substance. At least- that is what you've said, or what I've remembered. But I couldn't see your lips moving; I can't know that it is real, your words. Just as I can't truly know that you are real when you aren't here. All memories and feelings of devotion could be from my own mind's making, complete, and seemingly whole, but devoid; as then my life would be.

You could just be a story, a lovely story.