"The Village of My Dreams," he whispers, a breath of wind in houses of faked memories with walls of city lights that keep him awake
The beauty before him, ethereal and shining, is not a scene, a picture or a painting, no, it is the person he felt would cause his heart to break
He loves the beauty, he loved the beauty, he died for the beauty, so his lips part when the beauty's lips brush his, and it's so real it feels fake
He found, in that moment, that there was the beauty that he should wish to heal, a heart so broken he would find it easier to remake
But he didn't, instead he cried crystals of pain and they landed among the shattered pieces, sticking them together.

"Wake up, I'm not here,
Wake up, I lie so near
Wake up, wake up my dear."

And he wakes up, cold and alone again, and cries for the loss he experienced so soon
He wakes up, and his love has still been choked on the fires of fear, and the drowning waves of distance.

He cries, wanting the village of his dreams