Not Even In My Dreams

I sip on these, the filigreed dreams,
To decorate my days with lace,
And the softly shaded blue,
Of cherished photo-memories,
And whispers of my perfect you.
And sleep falls,
Like silk beneath the waves,
As this softly washing shadow,
Spills onto my tongue
With words of fabled days.
And bring to me, the breeze,
That breathes of faint perfume,
This illusion I had hoped,
To have in place of you . . .
Though still the sun, shall sigh into the day,
Stealing into puddles left,
When the moon has slipped away.
These mornings find you leaving,
As the time for sleeping fades.
Yet still I press my lips,
To this my fantasy,
Though I know that you were never true,
Not even in my dreams.