I dreamt in vintage grain last night that you met me in the field we use to run through together; loose, and nervous. Images flickered and flashed like a sticky film reel. You were a shadow, a muffled voice always behind me. I awoke with a sinking feeling I had lost something I knew I lost years ago. Feverish was my skin in this midnight hour as a lay alone, skin pulsing with a rhythm we should have shared till the end of our days. You are the ghost of my time, my waking dream and I can only pray that one day you hear me calling your name in the wind as it passes through the gaping space between us.