I know already that I will never see her again, not in the flesh of the awake. Only in dreams, where she will lurk in the river veins of my limbs, stirring from time to time like silt stirred up from the bed of my sleeping body, clouding the water. And I will wake every time in the cold sweat of this very heartbreak, as if no time has passed at all. Because the river of mountain memory is achingly fresh. And my face will be wet with tears, not because I’ve dreamt of her again after all these years, but because in this dream, I am kissing her, and now I’ve woken up.
