Last night I dreamt you wrote me a poem. Strung together syllables of love. And when I woke, I wondered if it was real. I lay in the pre-dawn light, still wrapped in dreams and half imagined memory, and wondered what it would mean if it was. And, as the day began to grow, I knew that nothing could change. That love would not be enough. That our days would be filled with the other things of life. That this longing would be stunted by something bigger than my need. And, closing my eyes against it, I breathed in the scent of a different tomorrow.