After Dream
Last night the kitchen breathed He stood there silver hair spilling light a beard of ash eyes mirrors turned inward burning through me. His mouth moved, words curling out like a snake, as if speaking to shadows, as if speaking to me. For a moment a flicker — am I looking at myself? — An echo from a future I can't hold. He reminded me of Stanislavski, how I remember his pictures, yet searching those images he was neither him nor me. He was something other, carved thinner older than time, newer than now. I wanted to stay or have him stay but was pulled away, unspooled from sleep. Still, if I hadn't woken, would he have ever been? Dreams need breaking to be remembered a word waiting on the tongue, a word held too long never finds its sound. ::Note:: ... taken from here