She wore a long white dress
With a black choker on her neck.
Her hair pulled back and
A silver Columbina mask on her face
That’s how she would visit him in his dreams.
Three times a week
Forty days after she died.
He didn’t cry
She talked to him casually
“What’s the mask for?” he asked
She played with his greying beard
Stroked his face
“Open your heart again,” she said.
He got up, leaned on the bed rest
The blood in him started circulating
His face was red
She placed her head on his chest
She liked to hear his voice
Telling her about the small things
He had a wonderful butter croissant
He wrote for three hours
How he walked across the
Bridge overlooking The Seine.
He talked more about
The big things he wanted to do
With the rest of his life.
He wanted to write a novel,
A fictional one based on the
Different faces she wore.
His heart beat faster
His voice louder than ever before
The birds, the trees and even the moon
Then she was gone.