It isn’t a dream,
Yet it isn’t a memory.
Along the flowering path,
A lilting tune surrounds me.
So that I may glide and be called lovely.
In this moment of which I now exist.
Someone else felt these words before me.
In order that I may slip in and out of time.
To live in the impressions,
Of what might have been yours.
And though it isn’t a memory,
It is to me that this belongs.