Crabgrass

The Memory of you is
as stubborn as crabgrass-
slowly but surely
replacing
the grass of my brain
with your maze-like roots-
until finally you have consumed me.

I cannot go an hour
without you snaking your way into
my thoughts.
The fights we have over music.
The way you pull my hair,
like a child let wild on a playground.
A comment you made about my red lipstick.

I dreamt of you last night.
We were rock stars,
and while we sang
we kept eye contact with
each other rather than
our screaming audience.

The dream haunts me today.
All I can think is:
What does it mean?

What does it mean?