And when I dream, she is there.

I dreamt about her last night. 

It usually doesn’t happen that often. Actually, it hasn’t happened in a really long time. But it was strange — we were lying next to each other in this worn-out, rickety canoe stuck on land, staring in complete silence. Not a single sound came out of our mouths. And I couldn't touch her. I wanted to, God, I wanted to. To kiss the lids of her eyes and tell her about all the nothing I see, about all the places I go just to find her there. And tell her I love you, I love you, I love you. I need to love you. I wanted nothing more than to grab her face, do the unforgivable thing, and kiss her. I looked down at my hand and tiptoed my fingers towards her — getting closer and closer. And then her face completely lost all colour. Her hand flung back, slingshotting towards her chest. We looked at each other, and I went to say ‘I’m sorry’, but then she disappeared. I woke up in the centre of my bed, motionless, sweating, and full of things to say. And before I even looked into the pitiless dark, I knew my hand was stretched out next to me. I lied when I said it doesn’t happen that often…dreaming about her. I keep more of her in my mind than anything else. And when I dream, she is there, and my life has lost its pain.

The sun is in my room. I think it’s been here for a while. But I should get up now — I’m already late, and I’ve run out of time to believe in my dreams. 

That dream was so life-like.

I cried. 

Image by: Raymond Molinar