Do you remember when I told you I never dream?
Now I can’t stop these ******* dreams of you.
Dreams that start mundane enough:
a trip to the store; a walk about campus;
and suddenly, you.
Where you shouldn’t be.
(I thought we drew an imaginary line down I-29)
Sometimes you call out to me,
and others, you pretend I’m some stranger,
instantly interesting in my mystery,
easily forgotten in my absence.
Invariably, I approach.
Invariably, you’re not alone.

Who is this brown eyes, stupid smirk, gold watch?
This pressed collar, boat shoes, jawline?
I ignore him and focus on you.
“Why do you haunt my dreams?
Does my waking mind not chase you enough?
All I want is rest.”
Sometimes you laugh at my childishness,
and others, you and jawline stare at me blankly.
Invariably, I ask for a private word.
Invariably, you oblige.

“Why are you here? Why are you always here?”
“This is all in your head”
“Even more reason I deserve an answer;
an honest one–though you were never too good at those.”
A pause.
“I’ve never lied to you,”
“Sometimes I’d omit parts of the truth,
and others, I’d spare you minor detail.
Invariably, you’d rest easier.
Invariably, you’d dream of me.
You always did.”