For Mary, Princess of the River

You can't chronicle a dream 'til it's done.
When you're smack in the center
of a frog-prince fantasy
there's nothing to do but look around,
take it in, bury your face in her hair,
breathe deep the scents of lavender and curry
(she was always so particular about covering one with the other),
the earthy bite filling your senses;

whisper into her soul
the beauty you feel beside you—
those dark, bright eyes, full of intellect, of life,
of all that you wish most to be,
her gaze speaking all the truths you need
yet leaving you desperate for more;

lead her away with that mischievous look
and find some chaos to make her laugh,
quick and easy,
teeth flashing in the midnight streetlights,
addicted to the sound warming you
like the noonday sun itself.

You can't chronicle a dream 'til it's done.
So 'til you wake to that ominous grey,
put down the pen
and dance with her into surreal oblivion,
so when you're forced back to leaden listlessness
you can breathe your ink to life
and fill the world with her colors.