The Dreamer

I saw a dreamer in the sky once, hazel eyes a sharp contrast against the brilliant blue. There was only one cloud, a fleecy white rag that hovered above her head, and floated delicately in the breeze that ruffled the air. It looked as though it was nailed to the expanse of blue, as though it dangled in this hemisphere by only a wish and a bit of thread.
I knew she was a dreamer by the translucence of her skin--it was so clear, so pure, I could almost see the fantasies beneath it. A scroll of blue veins next to her temple pulsed thoughts, thoughts I could almost taste, they were so thick in the air. They seemed to roll out of her mind in great, invisible waves, keeping her afloat, away from the toils of the ground. On these billows she rested, although I could not see them--they were something you felt, something that didn't require eyes.
The dreamer was lazy, her lips curved in something that was too effortless to be a smile. I knew without trying that my lips would not do the same thing if I tried. The sun that I could not see caught the gold flecks in those hazel eyes and brought them dancing forward. Her lids opened fractionally, and the kaleidoscope golden eyes sparkled. The cloud was buffeted to the west and swung on its invisible thread. In the back of my mind, I thought that it must have been a truly great dream, to be strong enough to move that cloud.
I looked back at the dreamer, and her open eyes glimmered. She knew something I didn't.