There is a space between the vagueness of dawn,
and the horror of the morning sun light
where I imagine that you wait for me.

In the dream you greet me with a smile,
and I pay you back in tears;
for it’s the currency that I owe you.
When your parents came to tell the news
your father wept bitterly in my arms,
yet I held him stoically cold.
My life was organized and compartmentalized.
There was no space for your death.

Life passed me by,
But now that it’s gone
I just can’t look away,
And thus I often look for you.
Dreams don’t know of finality