Dreams recur in different ways.
The first hesitant holding of hands.  
The first tremulous brushing of lips.  
and when we try to recapture
that sleep-borne reminiscence
we are left with
the residue of sadness
or a residue of sourness.
We try to clutch at an ever diminishing
straw of recollection.
We almost have it.
Then it is lost.
Dreams die in strange ways.