That Ache Deep In Your Chest

where the light is always soft and kind.

I trace your smile in the air, in the steam

that rises from my cup, in the fabric of a dream.

In this world of whisper, you are close to me,

as real as the sun-drenched, swaying tree.

My hand reaches for the hand that isn't there.

My fingers close on the empty, lucid air.

And in that moment, the tapestry I've spun

starts to fray at the edges, one thread by one.

The lovely, soft-lit corner turns to shadow,

and the sun-drenched tree becomes a window,

where I watch the real world pass me by,

and see the real distance between you and I.

Yet still I choose the dream. I choose the art

of making you a garden in my vacant heart.

For what is life without a whispered wish,

a hope for a future that might not exist?

You may be a figment, a wishful kind of thought,

but you are the loveliest lesson I've ever been taught.

And though I know, when the morning comes to call,

that this beautiful illusion will have to fall,

I will hold it close, this fragile, perfect thing,