You refused to wear leather,
but, in dreams, there you are,
all boots and straps of dead cow,
and not much else.

A pity really.
You look so good that way.
But a dream is what it is.
And waking is what it is as well.

The hands that once held you
are less solid than clouds,
and can not hold on
to what they want, and once had,

in other ways, in other times,
and other configurations,
but never enough to satisfy
eyes that could see so much
after they were closed.