You lie to me as I sleep.

You have blue-gold eyes
and a bad habit
of only telling me you love me
in my dreams.

I lie awake,
sleepless and missing you,
the heavy comforter
draped across my naked waist
as stars settle,
faerie-dust bright,
across the sky.

And I wonder
if the barn owl outside,
hooting dolefully,
is telling me I must move on.

I wonder
if the moth
flitting across my cheeks
is telling me
that you're already gone.

You have a leprechaun's pot of gold
hidden in the depths of your heart tonight
and I can read it
in the shadows of your eyes:
you don't
really
love me.

You just love the idea
of falling head-over-feet
for the impossible.