In the Window of the Tallest Tower
I remember why I don't dream. I don't like the dreams I have.
I woke up and walked to the window. I lit a cigarette and held my shoulders as I looked out over the dying summer night. It was almost 3. The moon was as bright as the sun when combined with street lamps and the illuminating fog that came out of the man holes and gutters as the sewage cooled under the harbor breeze.
It was always her, in my dreams, that woke me and made my stomach explode. I wasn't in love with her anymore. I didn't care much about her or where she was. She ignored me and disregarded my plea for attention and even help. She lost all privileges with me. Unfortunately, I always see her shaking her head in my dreams. I always see her and I cry. I see her strong and confident and see myself as weak and nervous around her. I'm always afraid to look her in the eyes. She's always staring off over my head as if looking for someone else.
I can't even imagine what she must look like now. She would have to be 29, 30 in a couple months. I imagine her eyes are a little more sunken and her waist and breasts have sagged despite her constant exercise habits and strange health focus. She has a great way of being fake happy as long as her agenda stays on track. I can imagine she gets swung around like a woman on a detergent commercial in the middle of a field of daisies while running to her lover's arms. I imagine her life as stale and boring, as it would have been if I had stayed around.
I don't lie to myself about what might have been anymore. It wasn't fairytale. It wasn't some sort of love-at-first-sight meeting. It was a lonely stripper and a young boy who had never really known a beautiful woman. She had a great smile and I wanted to keep it there. I gave everything I had to her and spent every spare moment with her because I was lonely as well. But as I got older, I got strong and she didn't seem as pretty and her words didn't seem honest. We left each other painfully and unnaturally. It was a wound that didn't heal simply because I wouldn't let it. I liked the idea of being martyred and having a story to tell, or a love to preach, that no one could match.
I have found another love since then. I have been moved far greater than she could reach out and touch. She couldn't compare to what I have seen since the last time we knew each other. She would only frown and lay there while I made my way to where I didn't want to go. She would only patronize efforts and keep her eyes fixed where they wanted to go. She would only strive to be something of her own and use whoever was around to get there. She would only fail me in every way.
I know why she is there. She is there because I never got the chance to say "Good luck" or "Good bye". I never got a chance to hug her one last time and brush back the hair from her eyes as she made her way elsewhere. She walked away without saying goodbye. She must have felt it wasn't necessary. She must have still had her own agenda. People never change. She never really existed.
I don't like to dream and now I remember why. I remember that I don't like them. My heart becomes heavy and my stomach cramps. I used to have lovely dreams not so long ago.
"Were you happy then?"
"I was free but I was still very tortured. I just didn't have to face any of the problems because I was off away from everything."
I want to dream about new love and the feel of another's skin. I wish more than almost anything that the feelings I have for another can cover me like a blanket in winter or a hand over your eyes on a birthday just before the cake comes out. I want the tears to be inside me when I wake up. I want them to be saved for someone who deserves them.
"So may the sunrise bring hope where it once was forgotten"
