I'm Not Real

Your hand was warm the night you came, your heart still beating, but I can't hear the sound. We held each other, breath to breath, two hidden faces, no one else around.

Your words are tangled in my hair, undone by everything you left unsaid, scattered like the morning light across the empty, colder half of bed.

My eyes still tear up at your name, I wake, and all of it is a dream again, the tired morning turns its face, and I begin the same goodbye again.

You'll fall asleep with both your eyes wide open, you'll build a life from someone who's not there. I'll always stay this age, this hour, this window, loving the same grey mornings, the same air. I'll never reach your arms. No, I'll never reach your arms.

And when you asked me, barely breathing, "Will I ever see your face again?" I turned my back so you would never see me break. I walked away, no answer, only rain.

I'm not real... I was never real. That's the thing I couldn't say, the reason I could never stay, the word I swallowed on the way.

So say yes to no one, keep the door unlatched, I'll be the warmth that leaves before you catch it. Your hand was warm, and mine was just a dream you touched.