Every time I dream about you I see and feel a warm body. Breathing, moving, talking.
We walk and walk. Often through graveyards. The pine trees around us a muted green. And I do know, that just around the corner, your gravestone stands tall and somber. A receipt of the truth.
The needles and debris on the soft grass beneath.
And I wish to lay down with you. I want you to talk about Tana French. About Donna Tartt. Whatever you want, Iâd love to hear.
But I never dare to ask you why we donât go left and up the hill. To the gray stone with your name on it.
Because I know the answer.
What did the constant changing of colour land on I wonder as we stroll?
Where you in summer or winter when timed stopped?
When we met for the last time, only a second, in passing. By chance. Much like at night.
You revealed your top teeth, you smiled at me.
The wind blowing your hair from behind.
But oh I canât remember. I canât remember the colour of your hair that day.
Now youâre dust. And i cant imagine a world where your body doesnât exist. Where your heartbeat doesnât send ripples through the air.
You only exist as memories. And I can only think of the last time I thought of you. Your face warps and bends. Your voice and words no longer yours.
I canât anymore form sentences the way you did. Youâre a fantasy, a concept, all grainy and blurry.
And like the pine trees you stand tall and never changing. Forever 21 with a damaged sinuses. A warped brain and shaky hands.