You have to give yourself permission.
You said that once, I remember it clearly.
I remember you saying that. Right in the middle of one of those many episodes I had.
One of those episodes where I sat at the table.
Shaking my leg,
Hunched over my journal.
You remember the one:
It's that journal I have that looks like an old Islamic prayer book.
Complete with geometric patterns embossed on the front, machine painted, with a lock on its side.
That lock, that doesn't really lock.
It keeps itself shut through intimidation.
You and the book have so much in common: maybe it's your sister.
Or something like your sister. Of the same blood, of the same mother, but maybe of different fathers.
That's not the point though. It doesn't really matter.
But I remember it well.
Even though it never actually happened.
Really, it was just part of a dream. Whether it was a dream I had during the day, or one at night like everyone else has at some point in their lives.
It's just, I remember it well.
Like it actually happened.
Maybe by thinking about it this way...
Like telepathic communication, or reading my "energies", or something else that can't be proven beyond a feeling.
Maybe in this dream... You were there.
Not as an extension of my subconscious desire,
but like you were physically there.
My brain interpreting the electrical signals of you being right in front of me.
Kind of like your picture that shows up on my phone when you call.
Existing, but encased in memory, not reaching out.
But really, you couldn't have been there.
You were only present in these dreams.
Comforting me there, taking my hands, speaking softly into my ears.
In real life, I knew that was impossible.
You could see nothing, through my eyes.
You could never be that close for long.
I guess it hurt you in a way, I couldn't see. But,
I wanted you there.
But lets go back. Let's not get discouraged. Let me remember what you said in that dream, where one detail is always left out.
What was it you were saying? It seemed very important.
And I can't help but feel the memory I have, is counterfeit.
Because I'm a man, who questions my motives.
And you being there, seems so clear. Like it had to have happened.
So let's recap: there we were, in the car, staring at the city lights. Scriabin's Piano Sonata 6, blaring through the stereo. This scene always seems to cut out, right at this point. Your hand was gripping my own. Your fingers, lightly caressing my skin. My heart was racing, I looked at your eyes and said: "What's next?"
Your hand reached up, brushed my cheek. Our embrace moving closer and closer. Your hair, resting softly with my fingers moving through.
What am I giving myself permission for?