Dreams - an essay

Dreams

 

I dreamt about you last night.

 

I don't really remember much of the dream, but that's pretty common as far as dreams go.

I just know you were there and it was definitely sexual.

I saw your face with my mind's eye, exquisitely detailed, so real it was real, at least for a little while.

I must have known I was dreaming because a terrible urgency gripped me, a need to stay with you and hold onto you for as long as I could before you disappeared.

 

I knew you'd disappear.

 

But just for a little while I had you all to myself and it was so good, so right.

Your lips touched my face, the soft hairs of your beard brushed my cheek.

Your deep voice filled my ears even though I don't remember what it was you said to me.

I woke to your scent surrounding me, the phantom press of your body against me, wishing dark hairs clung to my pillow.

 

I don't want to admit I miss you, but I do, terribly.

So badly that I can't think about you at all.

I've put you and all our memories away, locked them up tight in a dark cavern at the back of my mind.

I can't bear having them intrude into my life now.

I have to consider you lost to me, dead, or the anguish in my heart is too much to bear.

 

I remember our last conversation, the one where you divorced yourself from me and my needs.

My horrible anger is fresh as new snow with each recollection. 

You said there was nothing you could do.

The truth was there was nothing you were willing to do.

You chose to withdraw, and I'll hate you for that, hate you for being weak when I needed you to be strong, hate you until it stops hurting...

Hate you, hate you...

Hate you, hate you...

 

If you feel everything intensely, ultimately you feel nothing at all.

That was your fear for us.

I'd love you so hard and fast that I'd use up all the available love like it was some kind of fossil fuel in limited supply.

Now instead of years, months, weeks, or even just days of the purest, truest love, we have nothing.

 

I wonder if you ever think about me; if you ever miss the way I touched you.

In the quiet darkness I ponder whether you miss my voice or the scent of my skin.

Somehow, I am very sure you do not.

I offered you my soul and you gave me an orgasm.

Not a very fair trade from someone who once relished being my Personal Jesus.

 

I don't want to lay eyes on you again.

It would be best for my sanity if I did not.

So why, at night, when I have no control, am I flooded with visions of your face, sensations created by your body?

How is it possible you fight me even from inside my own skull?

 

I dreamt about you last night.

 

And you abandoned me again.