The Guy who Visited my Dreams

The guy who visits my dreams is careless about everything around him, 
He waits there with a quite bewildering face,
waiting to be chosen to take part in something greater than my sleep.

The guy who visits my dreams creates a path of nonsense lullabies,
Ringing bells that echo on the walls when he is not there,
noticing his absence is still in the air. 

The guy who visits my dreams,
tinted in a shade of pain, is not red anymore,

he’s turning lilac with a taste of wine,
smelling like the sea when snow falls down its sand, 
odd in its essence but enthusiastic in his chest.

The guy who visits my dreams grows apart every time I have something to say.
Like if the idea of any word coming out of my mouth 

is somehow terrifying and hardly to even hear.

The guy who visits my dreams has left forever,
Or perhaps temporarily gone, can’t say that I don’t miss his voice,
or the seat in my car he used to rest his head on.

The guy who visited my dreams is missed by the autumn leaves,
dying slowly as his winter breath exceeds my neck.
He’s completely and utterly blue now,
kind of greyish if the light hits right.

The guy who visited my dreams can’t go past the border of my land,
Living in an exile he must remain forever past.