A poem dreamed of me.
But I was left, forgotten, by the morning.
My poem is haunted by this.
What meaning did I have, now lost?
It closes its eyes, retracing into darkness, trying to call back my face.
It's not there. Gone for good, but for that maddening tug of the missing.
As curiosity folds over into frustration, it closes its eyes again, digging for what I felt like.
But it finds nothing.
I didn't leave that sort of a mark.
Only thing you can tell is that I was there - I was really there.
I'm not there anymore.