I dreamt of you last night.
It is fuzzy, as fuzzy as the memory of our love,
but this is what I remember:
We were broken up, not friends,
such as we are now.
But were forced into each others' presence
by a road trip with Grandpa.
It was an uncomfortable ride
with every word spoken being suffocated by the toxicity of the air.
And then it was morning.
We apparently drove to Michigan,
for we were all having breakfast in Grandma's living room.
You were ignoring me,
but I brought you your orange juice anyway.
I set it on the coaster beside you.
You didn't say a word, but Grandma thought it was sweet.
I sat and ate a humble breakfast
as far away from you as possible.
And then it was night.
We were sitting on a log somewhere outside in the dark...beside each other...
alone.
I told you of how I cried for days, and then, finally,
how all I felt was emptiness.
You told me of how you cried for the first time in years,
and how awful Grandma was.
I leaned my head on your shoulder, and muttered,
"I'm sorry."
I'm a slave to the physical,
but the physical doesn't fill the hole in my heart.
After a long moment,
you leaned your head against mine.
We wrapped in each others' embrace,
full of love,
full of warmth,
and cried.
"I've missed you so much."
"I've missed you, too."
And I was happy.
And then I woke up.
And I was still happy.
I looked around and felt the room grow bigger
as the loneliness filled it up.
I smelled the girl from the night before on my sheets,
so I threw them off.
I stood up,
and then I fell to my knees
in a broken heap of a foolish man,
and cried.
There are no words to describe how I miss you.
I am sorry.