Dear ,

I had a dream about you
all last night.
And I tried to write a letter
to inform you of subconsciousness'
efforts,
But a mockingbird stole my senses
While momentum took my books away
from me,
And the line ended unfinished.

I had been trying to list
to you,
All the things that lace my dreams,
fill them up with Celtic songs,
and send wonders echoing in hallways
toward questions of you.
You are the music that reminds me
of the dreams I had of you,

And now in letters,
and in birds that cry to echo others' songs,
and in my prose, inertia,

you are my unfinished