With dreams like tone poems, I find myself left guessing as to why you told me you’d see me in March.

The ghost of a kiss lingers along with confusion. You haven’t stepped through one of my dreams in ages.

I walked past a battered yellow truck with spilled fried rice near the front left wheel.

You can’t go back in time and space.

Not outside of dreams. Even then, the strum of starlight is parted by weighted hearts. We carry bunched knuckles like fighters clenching coin rolls.

Sleepy eyes and familiar songs.