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Jun 2015
In my dream, we were ghosts together. Not really sure how we found each other, not really sure how long we'd been floating past streetlights and bus stop benches, not really sure how we got this way. We didn't talk about things that happened in the past, or how everything around us was changing faster than we could hold on to them, how their shapes shifted before we could get a good grip. I cried on your shoulder when you finally said "Baby, I think we're dead." We both already knew but we weren't ready to admit it. I guess we were just stalling, wrapping time around our necks as if the seconds would choke us back to life, but it was not the noose we were looking for. You said "At least we have each other." So we forgot our names and emptied our organs to fill them with forever. After that, time was water slipping through our fingers, time tangled knots in our hair. We traced love letters in the sky with time and watched them dissipate to nothingness, into thin air. It was all we could do to hold on to each other. And we still fought. Eternity was a rushing river we waded through waist-deep, pulling us apart and back together again, our limbs weaving, interlocking, before we broke off and swam in opposite directions. You were the first hopeless thing I wanted to believe in. You stepped inside me and held my lungs so I could laugh again, you called it home. When I missed things like coffee or rain, you sang until I couldn't remember ever being alive, and we were happy again. When I woke up, I felt older. It smelled like something had died in my bed and I realized that I am forgetting what it's like to be alive. I'm afraid we're becoming ghosts. But not like we were in my dream. I wanted to die with you, but not like this. I'm not happy anymore and I don't think you are either, maybe this thing's not working out. Maybe this is as far as it gets for you and me. Maybe time has been writing us love letters back all along, but we don't look up at the sky anymore. We don't step in puddles of rainwater, we don't know how to swim anymore.
A really emotional prose piece. Missing a certain somebody. 6/4/15
Written by
Joyce  Nashville
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