hypnopompia

thoughts crowd at the helm of y/our forehead -
we’re accustomed to this though, at this point
it’s routine. the stars align themselves on the
asphalt canvas once again, Luna takes center
stage for another dress rehearsal with Oberon
in the audience, casting a scrupulous gaze.
we’re handed the scripts and resign to our
faith of being puppets, the lights dim and
we collapse into our lines, with the intimate
knowledge of the bittersweet ending -
we’ll never hold one another.
…
not this time, i break through the tedium
and run through the fogged thicket,
till my lungs ache and every laboured
breath is a searing knife between ribs.
i search for you, and you’re no where to
be found. the fog thickens. i call out to
you

…

to no avail.

prompt: you're lost in a dream, but later come to find out it was real.