The longer I don't see him...

The fuzzier he grows. A figment of my imagination. A dream I once had. Or a dream once had by a girl who used to be me.

Maybe that's for the best.

Or maybe it makes those moments when I'm told of him (he talks! he breathes! he rides in cars with boys!) all the more jarring. His very existence an affront.

Maybe I don't want him fuzzy. Maybe there's (strange) comfort in blood-raw pain. As if what we had did matter.

And that's the urge to see him.

Then again, I'm not so very brave. That I'd walk straight into flame.

Nor so foolhardy.

Today is two months. At this very hour.

Monday night he came to me, in my sleep. His pale face, his Nike jacket midnight blue. He was beside me, he was with me. He had returned.

I looked at him. His somber eyes. "But..." I shook my head. "I don't want to be with you."

Not angry. Just rooted.

I woke, surprised. Because I rarely lie. And never in my dreams.

Comments

[katherijne]

Did you really post this at 5:53 am? Your time? Or our time?

Ah, dreams! A good sign, I think!!!

[lilan]

Oh dear, there is something weird about the typepad clock. So it was, um, 2 pm in Berlin when I hit publish. That would have beena very early a.m. breakup anniversary otherwise!!!
:-)

[katherijne]

I can't believe it has been two months!

K