Photo by Alex Wolfe on Unsplash

It doesn't happen every night.

I could tell you it did, but I won't pretend to be tormented on a daily basis. Still, it happens at least once a month. Or twice. Or more. I'm not sure; I haven't kept track of them. Of all these dreams of you. You and I, crossing paths, exchanging looks, talking, kissing, having sex. It almost sounds nice when I put it this way, huh? But they're fucking nightmares. In each and every one of them, I'm viciously anxious: I want to shout at you, ignore you, seduce you, tell you how much I've missed you, make you laugh, turn you on, make you come, tell you I love you with all of my broken heart. I want to do all of that at the same time, and it's killing me, because I can't. All I can do is wake up and hurt from still wanting so much from you. And I know it's slowing me down; I get mad at myself every time I think about it. I guess these dreams keep reminding me how deep of a dent you made into my life, for better or worse. They leave me sad and sour for a few morning hours. They turn my head back, and command my feet to dance with ghosts from my past. They throw shade over the shining rays of "maybe" and "why not" life sends my way.

But they also give me a few minutes to stare at your beautiful face again, and kiss it with all of this vivid love I've got.

Wherever you are, I hope you wake up happier than I do.