She sits beside him, her fingers laced in his,
But her mind weaves a face she’s never kissed.
A man born of dreams, of whispers at night,
He’s perfect in ways her heart thinks is right.

Her husband speaks, his voice steady, deep,
But there’s another tone her thoughts seek to keep.
It’s softer, untested, not worn by time,
A melody imagined, without reason or rhyme.

The real man, he labors, his sweat tells his love,
But the phantom glides, untethered, above.
He forgets anniversaries, forgets to surprise,
While the dream-man kneels with diamonds in his eyes.

He brings her roses from the world outside,
While the ghost in her mind brings the moon to her side.
Her man offers her breakfast, coffee, and bread,
But the other builds castles in the space of her head.

She doesn’t speak of this, the battle he fights,
Against a man of shadows, against her own nights.
He cannot win, for this man doesn’t tire,
Doesn’t falter, doesn’t stumble, doesn’t require.

And yet, her husband, in his imperfect way,
Stays through her storms, keeps the shadows at bay.
He is the man who wakes her from sleep,
Holds her in arms strong, real, and deep.

But still, the ghost lingers, just out of sight,
An unspoken rival, a thief of the night.
Men love their women with flesh and with bone,
But often, they share her with a man unknown.

And so, he competes with the dream she has spun,
Not knowing the prize he’s fighting is none.
For the man in her mind is a flickering flame,
While he, her reality, carries her name.