Who are you?

A dream I had one night.

             Between my forefinger and my thumb, I hold a single curl of hair. It’s thin and sinuous, and dances around the thin creases where my fingers curve. I hold this lock of hair and stare at its substance, at the incandescent glow that warms the frozen nerves in my elongated touch. It doesn’t flow away from my small embrace, but merely remains gently secured between my pale fingers as I explore its length and color. The tips of the strands reach well beyond my fingers, and I hold this curl just below the cast of my gaze. Its shade is that of a deep, rich brunette, nearly auburn from the radiance it emanates. Its scent reaches my nose like when an ocean breeze strokes the lush fur of an unknown animal. The breeze carries with it a trace of recently bloomed roses along with freshly cut melon. Now the fragrance lingers around my cheeks and eyes.

           Eventually, my eyes follow the tress of hair to its source, where they come upon a fountain of the dark, sweet velvet I still own around my fingers. The abundance beguiles me as I stare intently, though soon, I am forced to follow the trace beneath the fountain, to the foundation. But there is nothing.

            Who are you?