I have been dreaming, as on a summer's day.
Was it your face that I saw hovering over, or was it some succubus or lamia, come to constrict me in her coils? Perhaps I dreamt you, or that I dreamt that I dreamt you, hovering over, as some leafy frond of weeping willow, mourning for our living remoteness alone.
For you are far from me, and little other than dreams brings us together thuswise.
For I am afraid to weep.
How I am afraid to weep as I read your letters, lest my tears make pallid each line, wavering into nothingness but the stains of my dried tears. I would rather not lose your words, your thoughts and your expressions unto me, your protestations of love and endearments, of one lover unto her beloved. Such is as a dream, to me.
For it is as a dream, and I have been dreaming, as on a summer's day.