You've been returning to me in my dreams
slipping past astral customs and riding mysterious planes
clutching your secret passport and even secreter agenda,
hair still the color of my favorite flavor,
reminding me that I possess a reservoir of poetry.
What am I supposed to do when you come
wordless and angry, your face ever changing?
I can't explain the way your trips make me feel
I am relieved when I see you
and remorseful upon waking.
I left without apologizing,
so you've followed me across the Atlantic
to let me know that you're still waiting.
