Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she comes to me.
Curling up inside my heart, she begs me to remember her.
She wants me to smile as I watch her play. She wants me to giggle bashfully.
She wants me to be a child again.
She is a very persuasive bedmate, and I follow her in my dreams.
We cross streams, skipping over slippery rocks fearlessly, until she laughingly reminds me not to look down. I do, and the depths of the raging river greet my falling body with a roar.
We skip through meadows, lush and green. She leads me over a hill, and into thin air.
She takes my hand, soft and sure. She squeezes it tight, and I watch my purple fingers fade away.
Her arms spread out; she spins around, faster and faster, until she is but a dizzying blur and a taste of bile in the back of my throat.
Her laughter, loud, boisterous, laughter, is ringing in my ears. It echoes in my mind, daring me to listen to her silenced voice.
I cannot breathe, for she has stolen my air.
I cannot change, for she has stolen my courage.
I cannot believe, for she has stolen my faith.
She is everything I am not, and everything I could have been.
If only she would stop coming to me.
She turns, with a smile, and waves goodbye.
And I, I with my tortured dreams, grab her wavering shadow and pull her close.
I hold her, with shaking arms, and will not let her go.
She wants me to comfort her, to stroke her hair and ease away the pain.
And this child of mine, this child of mine, I will not let her go.