You, A Dream

You.

You were in my dreams last night. With the same problems you have outside of my dreams, so I shouldn't say it was a dream, it was a reality that happened entirely in my mind while I was sleeping. But it was the same bullshit, I won't lie to you. My being asleep didn't make me less conscious of how much bullshit you've got crammed into you. You're an impacted colon with legs. But that didn't make you less desirable.

It might have been why I wanted you in the first place. See, I like complication. I like having a reason to throw my hands up, to bitch and moan, to kick and scream about things that don't seem as important when the garbage is stinking up the house of you've got to really take a pee. But when none of those other factors are in play, it's like opium for the soul knowing I've got you to contemplate over, to feel a twinge in my heart for as I cry salty tears into my morning tea sweetened with sugar subsitute.

In my dreams you lived in the same town you do now. In a log cabin. You're still impossibly tall with legs as thin as matchsticks down to the blue sneakers you always seem to wear. Your hair has a will all its own and you're hands are just as beautiful; elegant and carved so that I hear symphonies when I look at them.

You still had that girlfriend and I still felt badly for telling everyone that she cheated on you, but I was trying to explain you, or rather why you're so venomous and so sad and so aloof. If you had seen them nod their heads and mumbles their "aahhhs", you wouldn't have been so mad about it. Everyone needs some pity points when they won't open their own mouths to defend themselves. I couldn't let everyone think I only had the hots for you because you're good-looking and moody and a graphic designer.

But in your dream I completely had forgotten about that time when we crossed the Seine together and we were so close a gust of wind couldn't have squeezed past us. When I couldn't see the dark of your eyes from the darkness of the night and I realized it just wasn't worth it. How I walked for hours back home knowing I could have gone up those steep stairs, or at least they were steep in my mind for poetic reasons, as was your bed very squeaky and your jeans very easy to pull off in the heat of moment. Your lips tasted like rosewater and your hands, as carved from marble as they might be, absorbed the warmth from my skin and couldn't be blamed whatsoever for my shivering.

I admit I forced myself to sleep a little longer not in my bed or in the knowledge I have now that I'm awake. But in that blissfull, mindless place where I had forgotten all those things and you were worth it again and it was exciting again and I wanted you enough to chase you down the quais and over the ponts and through the Marais as if you were a marathon.