Last Dream

I still dream about you,
I confess.
But the dreams are strange and
I tire of their weirdness
We're sitting across from each other
Along with our friends
You're singing a song that I wrote
With my dry Bic pens.
You look at me as though
I should know
Whether that's the way I want it to go
Or is too slow?
I hear music flooding the room
As you sing,
I hear an orchestra
Following a violin.
It's so strange and confusing,
To be honest the song's not like that...
But sing it the way that you have to
Before I wake up.