We met again in my dreams last night.
Surreal, how it felt so real.
Tragic, how it felt so right because when I thrush open my curtains to shoot the breeze with the morning light-
                      You have run wild again.
Grazing through the white daisies that I planted just for you.
A shrine of sorts but rather a melancholy gravesite tribute-
         to the face that I know but never truly see.
My love, you are but       fragments     of stained glass to me.
A mole   here and a freckle   there.
No.
A...