My dream last night involved you, Katie. It was like my normal dreams only our positions were switched.
Firstly, you moved to Alaska;
a land of blurring snow and blinding ice,
howling wolves and a yellow, low-hung moon.
You lived there, in a plain city, reading Lord of the Rings and holding costume parties;
running the only dance hall for miles with moderate success.
And then the Winter came
(At least, I think it was the winter. I don't know what Winters in Alaska are like).
It was dark for many days, and you withered from the lack of light
a total, utter lack of light
not even the bright snow was glowing in your eyeballs.
Light was gone, totally
and you were trapped in night, the Dance hall's lights too blaring
and never enough warmth, always cold
inside and out.
And you got sick.
It was slow at first--my dream showed me many days, many fabulous costumes and foods and contests--
and then it got worse.
You got pale; not from a lack of wholesome Wisconsin sunlight (if you've ever heard such an amusing thing as that-!)
but from a lack of light.
I'm not going to describe to you the circles underneath your eyes,
the shadows on your pretty face,
the death within your tree-trapped eyes,
but know they struck me.
Soon, even the most beautiful of costumes could not disguise your illness, love.
Even your red hair was thin and lank,
prickling from behind your ears with an almost-dancing hopefulness,
staring at your too-white world.
And then I came.
I don't know how you see me.
If you were to describe me, I don't know what you would write.
Remind me to ask you.
Dream-me came, in a sparkling blue dress
like your ice, your snow, I was
ice-sequins hanging from the blue,
jagged edges over the silk, like winter--
my eyes were gold,
brighter and brighter, more and more noticeably, as I grew closer to you
If I were the one laying in bed, getting sick and you came in for a dream
I would breathe the gold dust from you and be well at once.
This time, you were sick, not I--
and a silvery-blue dust, like powdered magic in an ancient world
sped from my skin like feathers, enveloping you
and you closed your tree-filled eyes, waiting.
Sure enough, color crept back to your skin
your hair was restored and you sat up at once,
eyes still closed
and when they opened, the last of the powder--after restoring your lips from corpsely blue,
your clothes to their former, costumesque glory--swirled to rest in them,
which glowed white like your snow, but also blue like the breath in winter, filligreed with diamond-made lines
like a mine of silver-blue stones;
a season of your eyes without the warmth.
Your eyes were open.
Your arm extended to me weakly.
A slow, beautiful smile.
"Payton....amin ithil..."
Payton. My moon.
Even your voice was correct in tones,
your accent and pronunciation mediocre at best.
It made the moon-me smile.
I woke up.
Amin tathar ten'oio linduva lle isilme, amin anar.
I will forever be your moonlight, my sun.
You once asked me why you were the sun, and Finley was the moon.
I give a lot of complicated, mystical, metaphoric answers.
There's a simple one, though, one I often over look--
the answer of the heart.
When you think of me, you don't feel me like the sun.
If you've ever tried to feel things that aren't human---well, I did that. Twice.
I wanted to know what the sun and moon felt like.
Glorious and wonderful things, you should try it sometime.
Point is, when I close my eyes, when I focus--
you're my sun. Finley's my moon.
Why?
Because for you, I am the moon.
I'm everything to you that Finley represents to me, minus the relationship angle.
At least, I think so?
Magic, eloquence, aloofness, coyness, smiles, grace--
also uselessness, too much dreaming, sensitive, philosophical.
Meanwhile, for Finley, I am the Sun.
I am everything to Finley that you are to me, plus the relationship angle.
I am light, and magic, heart and love, an ''empath'' (as Finley calls), silliness and frivolity,
and he needs me.
Most desperately, my Finley needs me.
He was broken until I found him, until he felt me
and I was a balm to him, I healed him, I made him whole and better.
When he smiles, it is a victory to me.
That is the nature of the thing, you see?
I complete Finley.
If you wanted, I could be your Moon.
It's all about perspective, representation.
Amin i'ithil....
I am the moon.
Amin i'anar.
I am the sun.
Over all? To me?
I've always thought of myself as.... the Sky.
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