It's something about
dreams I can't remember
when my mind rambles on
running through hidden rhythms
looking for something greener.
It's something about
meeting you there in the mists,
in-between natural conversation
and forgotten memories.
Having known you
and lost you and found you,
I still grieve those vacant hours
always harder before the rain comes.
It's something about
the way you hold my hand--
I'm sure of it--even if,
I can't remember how it felt