I dreamt about you last night, and you let me lean into you instead of moving away. I breathed you in hungrily; that warm, familiar, earthy smell of comfort and food, of confidence and peace. And instead of making space, you reduced it and you let me hold your hand, just because. So instead of waltzing around the words that keep us apart, we finally spoke the truth to each other; the truth of our hopes and dreams and the way we wanted to intertwine like vines, instead of claiming our separate oases, like cacti.
Then I woke up to a cold, empty bed, to the hard reality that my dreams make you into something you wish not to be, to the knowledge that the space between us is of your doing, and no matter how I try to close the gap, you will always move away. So I try to stop myself from becoming the person I swore never to be; the jealous non-girlfriend who grasps at will o' the wisps, the broken-hearted woman who becomes a bitter spinster, the unhappy single aunt at every occasion. I've given up on you, so I try to let you go.
But I can't. And my dreams cannot change you from the man you are becoming; a man in love with someone else.
A mini break from nanowrimo.