A dream so real, waking up feels unbearable.
That’s the nature of your haunting- you come to me when I’ve let my guard down for the day.
Warning isn’t your style, perhaps, or maybe you’re afraid, too. Of Us.
You pull up a chair next to me, and comfortably exist right within my boundaries. And then I rest my head upon your shoulder, and it feels right.
If I tried, I could hear the high-pitched scrrrr of you pulling up that chair.
That damn chair. Always a constant, just like your shoulder.
Your shoulder feels like strength, like fortitude, like vulnerability; exactly like the mountaintops I’ve grown to love
Unmoving, sure, and too far away.
Me on the left, and you pulling up a chair on the right. Me resting my head on your shoulder. And watching this scene unfold from behind us both.
The dreams, though, are painted by a different architect each time.
A corner tea shop. A boardroom lit in stark white. Rain clouds on a busy street. Dingy coffee cups.
The only constant is You.
You, and your chair always pulled right next to me, and your shoulder I always seem to rest on.
I’m so sure we’ve met before, I just don’t know where.
Maybe, in the dark alleys of my dreams, you’ve rescued me on more than one occasion.
Why, then, do you refuse to be here in my waking hours?
