I dreamt of you again.
You were in an attic with me, surrounded by low lamp light and candles, sitting on a makeshift comfort space made of over-sized pillows, soft blankets and cushions. It was so warm and rich, like a Moroccan room. Particles of dust made themselves known in the light, like shards of stained glass. There was a scent of old books and sandalwood. And we spoke in soft tones to each other. Like a whispered conversation full of easy smiles and lithe teasing. We lay across from each other, with our knees interlocking; fingers loosely intertwined, with me tracing the lines in your hand. The curve of your wrist. The symmetry between your thumb and the rest of you.
You stared into my eyes, and we spoke of how much we missed each other. Sitting upright, you then pulled me close, into your lap. I rested my head on your left shoulder and stared off at the stairs leading to the house that was below us. Conversation and laughter made itself known. Was this my house? Was it yours? How did we come to be here? I can't remember. But I remember that the space we both shared belonged to me. It was my own world. And you were the only one allowed in it. As if we were children in a secret club house, complete with passwords, intricate handshakes and melodic knocking.
I could stay here with you forever.
I was sad somehow. I was leaving off somewhere. Somewhere you couldn't - and wouldn't - follow. And you held me close to you, as if you were trying to subdue my own sadness with the warmth coming from your body. Your arms wrapped themselves around me, and I clung to your shirt, trying to bury my head in your chest; attempting to memorize your heartbeat as if it would resonate with my own. The worst part about this inevitable separation is that you sped it up by leaving me even sooner.
I righted myself into a sitting position across from you again and I begged you to stay. You explained that you couldn't. That they were waiting for you. By 'they', you meant the ones downstairs. And I resigned myself knowing that no matter how much I tried to reason with you, you would leave anyway. I stared at the wooden floor as the tears rolled down my cheeks. I didn't care if you saw me cry. But I didn't want you to look me in the eyes as I did it. It was my own way of pretending to be tough. As though this would thicken my skin somehow.
I know you felt horrible. I could feel it coming off of you in waves. You hated doing this to me, but there was nothing else that could be done.
You sighed then, because you were straightening yourself out; readying yourself to leave. You crawled over to me, our knees touching. You pulled me on my knees then and held me close to your body. We held each other as if letting go meant the world would fall out from under us. You ran your fingers through my hair, whispering - promising me - that everything would be alright. I simply held on to you as the tears continued to flow. You forced me to look at you then by holding my face in your hands. We stared at each other for a moment. Then two. Desperately trying to find something in each other that would stave off time and circumstance.
Then you kissed me.
You stood up and slowly made your way to the stairs, eventually disappearing. And I didn't protest it. The candles eventually melted low and gutted out before I could bring myself to look away.
Then I woke up.