We grow old but our story does not remain untold. We may lose our pets and parts and end up forgetting the rest. Turn our cheeks to the cold and lift the corners of our mouths in jest. Eventually we will turn to dust and mold ourselves, long after we are bought and sold, or simply given away. We write like it matters what we say, even if we can never speak it aloud. We wait until someone, somewhere, makes sense of it. Rarely does this happen before mortality has taken hold. But, dreams are not in vain. I close my eyes and see your face again. I hear your voice as if you’re actually in my room. I am unconsciously yours, you have me locked inside your dreamy smile. We dance, we kiss. I remember this only in fragments. Wake each morning to record our encounters, rendering them happy half-remembered memories that one day might grow to be our shared reality.