An Illusion

"You know, I dream about you," I told her last night.
"Really?"
"All the time"
How does she respond? What is she thinking? Even here I can't tell. But it doesn't matter, because we say little else, we just touch and cling to the comfort that was. Here it's ok, even it is only ok for here and for now, at least it's something. It's an imagination of a future constructed from the past. And firmly ignoring the reality of the present. Hope has no chance with the present.
"I dream about you all the time" I tell the comforting illusion, without ever realising that it isn't real.