Unspoken, at Breakfast
I dreamed last night that you were not you but much younger, as young as our daughter tuning out your instructions, her eyes not looking at a thing around her, a fragrance surrounding her probably from her freshly washed hair, though I like to think it is her dreams still surrounding her from her sleep. In my sleep last night I dreamed you were much younger, and I was younger too and had all the power— I could say anything but needed to say nothing, and you, lovely like our daughter, worried you might be talking too much about yourself. I stopped you in my arms, pressed my face up close to yours, whispered into your ear, your curls around my mouth, that you were my favorite topic. That was my dream, and that is still my dream, that you were my favorite topic— but in my dream you were much younger, and you were not you.