Dear Cressida, 

Today I dreamed,

that at the cusp of dawn

I ran out into the splintering darkness of the street

shouting my prophecy of Troy’s demise to deaf, silent doors.

I finally sat, exhausted, under a leaky eave

and stared up at the disappearing moon,

(a histrionic image, really, a little amusing to think of it now)

and that’s when I felt a soft touch of your hand on my shoulder.

When I looked up into your eyes,

I saw an ancient, solemn grief

reflecting on my own,

that said, “I know. I believe you, I know that Troy will burn.”

Later you said you were simply worried

that I’d become ill, sitting out there in the cold

and that could be true for all I know:

Although I can see into the future,

I have never found it easy

to see into anyone’s soul

the way you saw into mine,

the first day we met.

Yours truly,

Cassandra