Why do we do this to ourselves?
Why do I do this to myself?
I dreamt of you. The reality swept over me that it was just a dream and it broke my heart.
There you were, there you were, walking towards me, your arms held out. I felt your embrace. Your head leaning against mine, your arms clinging to me. It felt as if you would never let go. You whispered into my ear that you had been a fool. You told me you wanted to take me home and that we would be together.
Your voice spoke those elusive words. You said aloud “I love you” as if it hurt you to admit it. But you meant it. Your heart beating with the knowledge that you had given in to love though you tried to resist it all this time. You spoke of the agony of the separation. The longing for someone who adores you and always seeks to lift your spirits. The awareness that nobody else has ever gone to so much trouble for you, put up with so much boorishness from you, endured so much discouragement from you.
You tried to take the sweetness I offered and tell me to my face that love is not real and that I was overly sentimental. You tried to tell me that it is impossible for you to love, that you have no wish to be attached to a woman, that you want to be free to see any woman you choose for casual connections.
But there you were. You had sought me out. You had travelled over mountain ranges and deserts to reach me. You gathered me into your arms and told me you cannot go on without me, that you need me. You begged me to come home with you and live life with you, by your side, hand in hand.
I could hardly believe the words I was hearing.
Then I woke up. The dream was falling away from my eyes, collapsing into the abyss of the night, I reached out for it desperately, but it was too late…it was gone. The cold morning sunlight had torched it into a fading smoke.
It was such a beautiful dream. It was the sum of all my inner longings, my whispered pleadings, my pent up frustrations, my fondest fantasies, my deepest desires, my silent prayers. It was such a beautiful meaningful dream. It was torture to realize that my deepest feelings had woven a nighttime fantasy and to realize in the process of waking that it was all a mirage, a figment of my imagination…and now it is all over.
My heart is bruised by a dream.
One thought on “My Heart Was Bruised By A Dream”
Dreams do that. Often just too real.