I'm not the woman you dream about

I'm not that woman.

I'm not the one who has made her life's work loving you, who would wrap you in the silken cocoon of a life with you as a center, and everything else as accessories.

You see me in the parking lot having a heated, quiet debate with my daughter, followed by a reluctant grin.

Or walking through the countryside with my son, pondering the grimy world of politics or the battles of the Civil War.

You and I pass each other on the running trail, sweaty and flushed, wrapped in our own mysteries.

I respect mysteries.

Distance is sometimes a friend.

With the man of my dreams, I could bring home experiences and conversations, like tapestries to be unraveled and viewed at our leisure.

The woman who visits your dreams wraps you in her fierce embrace. Every day she would remind you in ways overt and half-heard of how much you mean to her, and how devastated she would be were you to ever leave.

There you could never question. In her arms you could brook no doubt.

It is where you want to be, dreaming -- most of the time.

In my face you would see friendly skepticism pass like clouds over the green earth, even as I signal affection that sometimes does not dare to speak its name.

I am a fan of questions.

You long for certainty -- and you wonder, with the taste of poppy in your mouth, if you will find it with the woman who haunts your dreams.

I prefer to be awake, as fully as possible -- and to catch the eye of one who looks back at me, surprised, and pleased.

If we both trip on the sidewalk, it will be because we have truly seen one another -- and want to keep on seeing.

You pass me on the trail, feet thudding against the gravel --and, for a moment, you open your eyes.