I only know you from my dreams. Happy dreams saturated with snapshots of the lulling sea, of shared sleep, of morning light.

Your name is Gus and I’d like to think we are friends, with you visiting me occasionally with beautiful vistas, your heart-lifting light.

In one encounter, we are sitting by the shore. You are reading a book while I am trying to read the story of your frowned mouth, the squint of your eyes. The scene is of simplicity and warmth, of familiarity with an imagined companion. You are wearing wire-rimmed glasses, just like the one I had.

/a flower 

In another, we are lying on my bed—it is morning and you look at me as I look at you. Your white shirt is pristine in the sunlight, my hair a storm of frizzy hair. The quiet is broken when I say that you are my Sunday Morning. Just like the Maroon 5 song.

The smile you give me rivals light itself. 

(I hope I remember to bring a camera the next time we meet.) 

I’m a bit lonely here, visit me?