“This way through night’s magic corridors where our beloved come back to us alive, right here and with no blood tax at the border.”
—Hélène Cixous, Dream I Tell You
“I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.”
—W. B. Yeats, ‘The Cloths of Heaven’
Picture it, a sort of swan song with cold hands holding.
When day slid into my bed I got to know it slowly, familiarizing myself with its concrete cradling. I wasn’t afraid but I stayed just where I was because I was in debt to you. It’s a soft, suffocating feeling when you go and it weighs a ton. I believed you in my dream when you said you’d never really been gone. A new truth rose up as huge and as dear as you were back then and I held on to it like a kite. I believe I even told you not to do that again and you heard, you listened. You promised, and now while I half-hear the six o’clock news I hold that promise like a wild thing I’ve rescued, unsure how best to keep it.
I remember when we were in college; we held hands before we went our separate ways. While we swayed there, suspended, I imagine it looked like we were two Americans at a dance. You might pull my arm and I’d spin, in orbit, back to you.
Well I didn’t think I’d see you here. My days are full, my gaze feels steady. Have you been here this whole time? How can I reach you again? Mostly my dreams are busy and inane; a carousel of little dues. I don’t want to be rude, or admit you caught me off guard, but I’m oversensitive and the transience of our meeting hurt my feelings. It was lovely in every aspect because I really have missed you terribly, and we were both vindicated and holding hands, like I said.