In Theory

Was it you last night?
Like a recurring dream,
playing endless loops
of memories in my mind.

You are a fever dream --
the times you purposely
slow down your walks
to match my pace,
a graveyard of butterflies,
an unending prose,
levanter, and uncertainty.

I sometimes wonder how you are,
and I'm like a kid tripping
on the smallest of rocks --
heart aching, knees scraped.

My poetry will immortalize you,
but will never bring you back.

Was that you last night?
Like a recurring dream,
never the reality.