A dream

Deep in my closet, in the dark;
you'll maybe have to walk inside,
I have one magical milk glass
that never spoils nor ever dries.

In fact sometimes I feel it's poured,
so timidly, a bit more white.
It's mostly empty, yet it stands
as fresh as sand kissed by the tide.

I wonder how its magic works.
Is it desire? Is it remorse?
Is it maybe a mix of both?
I'm so afraid to taste by nose.

Afraid of poison striking me,
afraid of it being elixir.
Afraid of magic since I am
a simple woman as can be.

But glossy glass whispers to me
when it is quietest, suddenly,
you know, you're extraordinary.
The best thing happened to me.

Each morning, when I go to sleep
as milk is spilling through the sky,
I have the same one dream, a dream,
of a glass full, overflowing,
soaking my clothes, painting the floor,
and leaving droplets on my skin,
and then my only wish, a wish...
I hope there's something left to drink.