A shared dream

We meet under the gray shroud of sleep where you skip into view aged and foreign but still mine,
speaking in voices unheard and unrecognizable but familiar, one day almost grown, another crying
at scraped knees and milk on the table. Your hair, eyes, face desaturated and eloquent, that genetic canvas
obscured by the prophetic randomness of dreaming and the irrelevant memories quietly forfeiting the morning.



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