I had the fantasy that maybe we would walk

the streets of an ancient town together,

and we'd talk since the sun rose up to when the moon sank

about authors who are long gone, but their works so present.

Maybe you'd tell me about Hardy,

I could tell you about Austen.

In the afternoon, we could drink tea in a corner cafe.

And then watch the stars appear one by one,

I could tell you all about them, 

I am so intrigued by space,

I could point out constellations,

and you could say something dumb - like, "you shine brighter than any star".

But that's all it is - a fantasy.

And we will never be,

but give me a few more weeks,

let me fill 3 more notebooks,

and after that,

I'll move on.