morning.

I dreamt of you again last night. you wore a purple suede jacket while picking your guitar with a slice of a raw carrot and I sat there in the back-row of your show holding the stem of an empty wine glass. whenever you looked up you smiled as you sang songs that should be written on postcards and mailed out to the future. "one day," you say at the beginning of the night to an audience who only knows you by your stage name. you repeat your words in your last song enough to weigh them heavy on my mind. and when the song ended, I didn't wait for you like I used to do in an empty room. I woke up, and it was morning.