After the Dream

After the Dream

My breath hangs in clouds
as I crunch through morning frost.
Your hand grips mine
a bundle of warmth, an anchor
in the brittle air.

I rest my head against your sleeve,
smell wool and wintergreen.
Your lips graze my temple,
and for a moment, the cold
forgets to bite.

“You know,” you say,
“This feels like a dream.”
I look up, snowflakes
catching in my lashes
“Why’s that?”

Your laugh puffs white,
a joke only you understand,
before your mouth finds
mine,
soft as a secret.

Then
your fingers slip.
Sudden cold floods the space
where your palm had been.
I turn, but the path is empty
only my own footprints,
In the snow.

The dream stays sharp as pine needles.
Real as the sting in my lungs.
But the streetlamps flicker off,
and somewhere, an alarm clock barks.