11"x 14" framed painting, acrylic on canvas -  She Dreamed in Star Dust
 
I was standing on the edge of a celestial ballroom, wrapped in moonlight. The air smelled of jasmine and champagne—an intoxicating blend of nostalgia and things I had never known but somehow missed.
A man with the head of a lion and the manners of a Gatsby-era gentleman approached me, offering his paw for a dance. 'Darling,' he purred, 'the constellations are watching, and you mustn’t disappoint.' We waltzed across a floor made of milky clouds, my feet never quite touching the ground.
Then suddenly, I was underwater—no, not drowning, just submerged in a sea where mermaids sipped martinis and spoke in hushed, conspiratorial tones about how time was merely a rumor. I nodded sagely, as one does when they understand nothing but wish to appear well-informed.
Out of nowhere, a comet whizzed past, piloted by a dashing gentleman with a mischievous smirk. 'Get in,' he called. I did.
As we streaked across the sky, I saw my reflection in a passing nebula—a woman with flowers in her hair, caught forever in the golden hour between wakefulness and slumber. And just as I leaned closer to study my own dreamy visage, I awoke, tangled in silk sheets and the bittersweet certainty that some dreams are meant to be lived only once.