In my dreams,

I gave birth to your child

and nursed mine, naturally.

Your shell rose in front of me,

while I mourned it:

the shell of what we were.

Now we are older,

We can no longer be girls.

We are continents apart.

Videos struggle to convey

the delicacy of the moment,

but fail miserably.

Instead they draw long-distance closeness,

second-best, disheartening.

They transport an image,

you as time-traveler,

but they cannot give

furiously clutching baby hands,

soft mewling cries,

the warmth of your skin.

At dawn I watch you fly beyond my grasp,

airy, artful ghost dancer,

happily wafting,

astronaut in space, baby in tow.

But at night, all three of us

are light as clouds.

We skim the globe endlessly.

At morning, I drop to earth,

sadly reminiscent.