Dreaming of You

I hate dreaming. I hate it because you appear to me whenever I least want you to, and you always come to me as soon as I’ve forgotten you the most.

Last night, when you walked up to me so innocently, I couldn’t understand that you were merely a figment of my subconscious, kicking up mud from the bottom of a crystal river. I couldn’t discern that while holding you tightly in my arms, you weren’t really in my arms. I couldn’t decipher that your eyes, your smile, even the soft hands that held mine were only fractals of my memory. We shared a new, phantom chapter of life together.

Then I woke up, and for the rest of the day I couldn’t stop thinking about the new memories I made with you, yet they were only in my dreams.