My friend left town today, after sprinkling some dream seeds in my heart. Tonight I'm going over them with careful eyes and tender fingertips, pressing them in a little deeper, lest the winds of doubt blow them away. We cannot be together without magic sparking--somewhere in my urban retreat, or in the words she feeds me like a meal. I am sad tonight that she's gone. When the last guest leaves is the moment that makes my chest ache. It is easier to waitfor dream seeds to take root and sprout when someone paints a picture of the bloom, when she exhales its fragrance. Tonight I'm staring at dirt. Trying to remember. Patience is my skin; my insides are words and breath.