Mr. Sandman’s Secret

I hate dreaming about him. Those dreams are all too real that, sometimes, I feel they are real memories of the past. I hate that I can freely touch his hands and caress his face while I sleep. There was this dream that we were among friends and it was so natural it hurts. If our choices in the past were different then maybe these dreams could be our reality. If I just didn’t let those doubts messed up with what I felt. And if he just waited or pushed a little more. But they are all just wishful thinking because our “what ifs” can never be real. They are only perfect in our heads but, I bet, they wouldn’t go the way we think they would.

In one of my dreams, we were enjoying this long drive to somewhere. Our favorite band is playing on the radio, I hit up the volume. Street lights were dancing while he drives around that sleepy town. And I kept on interchanging my looks, at the window and at his face. One time we were at a cafe. Funny, we were talking about dreams. He was holding a lit cigarette which is weird because he doesn’t smoke in real life. Another dream placed us in a sort of sanctuary or church-like building. We were readying ourselves for a zombie attack. And I hate that I remember those dreams when I wake up.

I hate waking up after dreaming of him. Those dreams make me feel things I can’t exactly define. They make me want things I don’t want or of things I denied to myself. They make me feel emotions that I don’t have the capacity for handling. They make me write down words better left unwritten. Catching those words and emotions back. Not wanting them to exist after the dream is over. They wouldn’t survive the real world. They will just wreak havoc in this peaceful world I made. I want to forget them so bad but some nights they would creep slowly. Flashes of scenes in a dream and silhouettes of faces I know that is him. Let me forget, Mr. Sandman.

Keep this a secret. Keep my dreams a secret. Dreams that I haven’t told anybody else. Dreams that I can’t ever think of again. Dreams of too much intimacy of intertwined fingers and finding salvation in embraces. Of dreams where I didn’t leave and where you chose to follow. Dreams that break the heart too much after opening my eyes. No one can know them, Mr. Sandman. I can’t have your dust on my sleeves.

DREAMS
Ephemeral.
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