Unsolved mystery

I dreamt that someone
from another dream
wrote a poem just for me
He read it aloud
when he thought I was sleeping
But I was only pretending,
listening,
steadying my breathing,
waiting

(It seems strange to dream
about faking sleep...)

I guess I was pleased
that he took time to write it
but I couldn't make it make sense
The words were neither
hot nor cold,
the emotion
inscrutable

I let the moment pass
without asking,
without even acknowledging

I awoke (twice)
discomfited,
doubly unsure whether it was a poem
of love,
of hate,
or indifferent observation

and for some reason
it mattered