I had another dream about you last night, a recurring one I get whenever you’ve been on my mind a little bit too much. We were laying in bed, on our sides facing each other, naked underneath the covers. We were talking, as we often used to do before we fell asleep, about anything and everything, our eyes shiny with happiness but heavy with drowsiness. The dragonflies were erupting in my stomach again, a feeling I hadn’t felt in so long finally being ignited inside of me. Though you were inches away from me, our bodies were not touching. It is as if even my subconscious knew you were no longer within my grasp. And then, as we lapsed into silence, you moved your face closer to mine, and just before our lips met in a kiss, I woke up, my hair and body drenched in sweat and tears trailing down my face.
I always wake up at this point, on my side. But you are not there, next to me.
It has been ten months since we said our goodbyes, without the passion that has always fueled our arguments before. The farewell was dejected in a way, as if we had both given in to the hopelessness of our relationship, as if we had finally seen in us what everyone else had seen from the beginning. We vowed to never talk again, a vow both of us broke several times. And each time, we broke not only the promise but also each other, over and over again. When we parted ways in January, I thought I could not feel more lost and alone than I did at that moment– that moment we decided we were no longer worth fighting for. Turns out I was wrong. Over these past several months, I have felt as lost as a small boat drifting aimlessly along the Pacific ocean, with no one on board to steer and give it direction.
That boat has more of a chance of finding its way to the shore than I think I do of finding myself again.
I feel as though I have lost my purpose in this world. People say that when you are broken, you can build yourself up into whoever you wish to be. But what if you are broken into so many tiny, minuscule pieces that cannot be put back together? A shattered glass painting can never be pieced back, no matter how much you try, and in the process of trying, all you succeed in doing is pricking your finger and hurting yourself. And oh, there have been many who tried. And with each that gets pricked, I feel myself breaking just a little bit more, overcome with the knowledge that anything I may ever feel for them cannot hold a candle to what I had once felt for you. Still feel for you. It’s as if though I put all the feelings, love, and romance I had inside of me into loving you.
And now, there is nothing left to give.
So nothing is all I give, nothing is all I feel, nothing is all around me, suffocating me day in and day out before I finally succumb to the darkness of the night and let my dreams take over. Until I wake up the next morning, my hair and body drenched in sweat, tears trailing down my face.
And the cycle starts all over again.
Anoesis 