rêve de dix-huit juin, deux mille vingt

I miss you. The thought of us together, our laughs mingling and intertwining, the secrecy we shared, the telepathic ideas that entered our brains at a time of utmost convenience. Staring out of the window as I wait for you to wake by my side. Sitting on the counter, sure not to kick the dials of the stove as we stick together in the summer heat as my hand goes to your hair and you cup my cheek and it’s softer than any kiss I’ve felt in my entire life and your hair is brushing swiftly against my shoulder so I tuck it behind your ear as you lean into the kiss and I wonder why I haven’t been doing this since the very start. 

We pull apart and take a breath. The smile creeping across your face, knowing that yes, this is what it’s supposed to be. My heart pounding with real love, pulsating every single time my brain searches you in its glossary of prominence. Things have never felt this way before, the softness, the sensitivity, the warmth, the sympathy and the sweetness of your lips as I practically melt into you. This time I pull away to stare into your eyes and brush your face, your cheekbones cutting me as I remember why I fell for you in the first place.

I wish I could see the contrast of your marine eyes and jet brown hair. I wish I could see your shape in those black dresses, the fabric clad against your skin with hair that frames your face in such a way that I just can’t remember exactly what it looks like. I wish I could. I wish I could see you, your blue eyes, or green, I feel my memory slipping with every minute that goes by since I awoke. I wish you were real. Yes. real, when I awoke, turning into the pillow, filled with grief and dissatisfaction as I pulled every single moment of you into a fraction of remembrance. the sheer misery, being brought back into the cool air of my room that pooled from various vents. I had set the thermostat to sixty-three degrees the night before. You didn’t even have a name. My heart still swells for you as I go on in the real world, hoping one day I nod off back into our perfect bittersweet fantasy. Not a soul, not a body could compare to you, you’re a figment of my imagination that will never be manifested. A nameless girl created by my own subconscious just to taunt and torment my pseudo-idyllic heart. You look like a Mara. or Helena. Or Charlotte, Mae, Alexis, Isabella, Emily, Grace, or Caroline. You’d look best in red lipstick. You’d look best in my arms.