"Searching for beautiful truths, wishing there was someway to put it back to be with you," he said, sliding into the booth across the table from the lovely Anne Rolands, varsity queen, valedictorian, star basketball player, home coming queen, farmers daughter, and accomplished amateur poet.  She had won the local poetry contest in her town's paper the past three years running.  She had one poem published by a well known state publication, and had, currently, one poem up for an award nationally.  Tyler loved her.  Loved her as only a 17 year old can; completely, and without false pretense.  He would kill for her.
"What the fuck does that mean," Anne said; she had her father's mouth.
Tyler tore at his muffin and pondered the sharpness of her nose, her tiny mouth, and the way her hair parted close to the middle.  He had loved her since he was 15, an age of falling down, stubbing your feet, and adjusting your body into clothes and shoes that never seem to fit.  Light fell into the cafe from a 50 degree angle, filtering loosely through the dust and into the back of Anne's hair, giving her a angel quality.  This was not lost on Tyler. 
"I love you, Anne," Tyler said. 
In dreams sometimes it becomes apparent that nothing is real.