I used to dream of days spent together. Simple things, really—things others might have taken for granted. I would dream of us holding hands in at mall, how your fingers would lace through mine, grounding me in a world that felt too big most days. Or sitting side by side in a dark theater, the glow of the screen illuminating your face as I stole glances, wondering if you felt the same pull I did.
But my dreams…weren't always so innocent.
I had my more rebellious fantasies, too. The ones that came unbidden, leaving me flushed and breathless with guilt. I would imagine us alone together in a room, the rest of the world forgotten. How would you kiss me, I wondered? Would your lips move against mine softly, tentative and unsure? Or would you pour everything into it, fierce and consuming, a fire that mirrored the passion I kept bottled up inside me? Then again, we never had many of those.
Sometimes I swear I could see you looking back at me as you smiled, your hand outstretched for me. Every step I took towards you brought me to my knees. You were so near and yet so damn far to take hold of your hand and bring you into my arms. Perhaps now you know why I loved to take hold of your hand under our table in class. Sometimes my dreams left me afraid I would never take hold of you again. I never wanted to let go.
In my dreams, I found myself the audience to my longing. My very first intimate moments played out in fragments, blurry and unreal. Beneath those blankets of imagined warmth, I could feel your hands tracing paths over my skin as you pulled me closer into your arms. How your hugs brought warmth to even the coldest of days.
No longer with me are my dreams of us in the most unexpected places. Walking through parks as we conversed in everyday conversation. Playing in the pool as you would cannonball in front of me, laughing as you splashed water at me until I pulled you under to steal a kiss.
Even in my dreams, the love between us was raw and untamed in a manner I cannot explain more clearly than it was to breathe. And yet, it was tender—so achingly tender that it left me yearning for something I couldn't have.
When I woke, those dreams were my torment and my solace. My dreams of us have ceased; now only the memory of what could have been lingers.
I no longer breathe the same way I used to.
I don't dream the same way I used to.
Everything was only a dream of what could have been, a cruel reminder of everything I lost.
Everything I let slip away.