And I find it a little sad, a little disappointing that after all of the years and the thousands of people I've met, I still dream about you.
We are young again, you are back and begging, and even behind my closed, dreaming eyes, I think, "Where did you come from?" And I find that dream projection of myself wondering if I can trust you this time. Telling, that even in a world I've created through quiet night hours and subconscious thoughts of my own, I can't trust you. And more telling still is the fact that I so desperately want to.
Twenty years can pass, and in those dreams it is a matter of days. And I'm trying to hide from you, from that conversation, from those memories, even as you pursue me with pictures drawn and letters written, cards created, a schoolboy once more-- I try to reconcile that with who I am now.
And I always awake confused. Because in waking life, I am happy. I am content with my world, the people that surround me, and so it surprises me to wake with a feeling of loss, my chest aching just as though I'd been crying in my sleep.