Dreams

My soul is wrought with perpetual thought,
Of the lips within my sleep.
Met with passion; returned in such fashion,
That I long for them and weep.

I scorn from where these kisses are torn,
For their owner remains unseen.
Are they born from lovers mourned,
Ghosts that could have been.

Or are they grace from an unmet face,
Unknown till distant time?
Or is such thrill from stranger love still,
From some dubious moral crime?

Could lips so tender, tormenting be mine,
Spectres from the depth of narcissius' pond?
From no love of anothers touch,
A self-fulfilling bond.

Though the chances are slim, undoubtedly dim,
I am left with little to do -
But drown in a sense, of countenance,
And always pretend it's you.