It takes me days to recover after a dream with you in it. Something about seeing you again, even just in sleep, opens a part of me I try to keep quiet. In the dream, you're still mine. Or maybe I'm still yours. Nothing is broken. Nothing is lost. We talk like we used to. We laugh. Sometimes we don't say anything at all. And somehow, that feels like enough.
But then I wake up. And you're gone all over again.
It’s strange how the heart doesn’t know the difference between what’s real and what’s remembered. A dream can feel closer than anything I touch in the day. And when I open my eyes, there’s this weight that follows me, soft but steady, like grief that doesn’t want to leave.
People say it’s just a dream. But it never feels small. Not when it brings someone back who never truly left the heart.
Some mornings, I wish I hadn’t seen you. Other mornings, I hold on to the feeling, even if it hurts. Because even if it was only in sleep, for a little while, it felt like nothing was missing. And that feeling, even borrowed, is hard to let go.
(Unknown)