i dream of you
sometimes, out of nowhere
Sometimes, out of nowhere, I dream of you.
I dream of us meeting by chance, of me stopping by y(our) house, of us holding hands and remarking at how familiar it feels, of meeting your girlfriend, of me telling you I’m happy for you, of you telling me you do still love me, of me telling you I’m not over you yet.
Unexpectedly, you wander into my subconscious and linger there, the way your scent seems to waft by sometimes. I dream of you, and it feels so real that I swear I could wake up back in our old life.
I wonder if you think of me like I think of you. I wonder if you think of me at all.
They say you miss having someone to do nothing with - and believe me, I do - but it’s just that we were so good at doing things. A perfect team. We often expressed to each other just how fucking good we were at being together. Exploring brand new places and weekends away and standing in silent contentedness in art galleries. We said that we’d made each other better people.
In Barcelona, on our very first holiday abroad on our one year anniversary, we ate paella in the overpriced tourist hotspot and paid way too much for sangria, but we didn’t care because we were in Spain and in love and away from our parents. We decided to get real bougie, and go to a champagne bar just for a fancy drink and dessert. Some cake and some fizz and then back to our tiny hotel room. I take your glasses off. You smile.
I often feel like I imagined you; like all the memories are mere dreams of you. I lay in bed now and can’t fathom a warm body next to me, night after night. Reading together before sleep. Waking up to the sounds of the tram going past. Play fights and hot water bottles and a quiet, comforting embrace when the world beyond the duvet was too much to bear. I had never thought I would get to experience love like this. I worry it was my only chance, and I blew it.
It’s not that breaking up was the wrong decision - it was a decision already made, by the way you said that you did truly love me once, implying that you didn’t any more. I forget that sometimes.
I miss the rounded, childlike voice you used when you spoke to the cat. I miss the unbearably devoted look in your eyes when you played with your niece. I miss you winking at me after a meal out, and asking ‘shall we get out of here?’. I miss kissing you in the middle of the dancefloor, because I was young and you were my first and the atmosphere was electric and my head was fuzzy and the feel of you drove me crazy. I miss the water droplets on your shoulder when you came out the shower, because you liked to get dry in the bedroom. I miss your terrible gift wrapping skills, and how you’d always get me to do it. I miss slow-dancing to The National on the landing. I miss how much effort you would put into something if you thought it would make me happy. I miss how you would slap your hand against your chest when bursting out into laughter. I miss hearing the songs you wrote before anyone else, and I miss the warm feeling of knowing which lyrics were about me. I miss your completely unique handwriting in my birthday card, and the pet names for me that you’d write on the envelope. I miss going into the city for brunch, and browsing in book shops. I miss helping you choose what to wear for a night out. I miss folding your pants and pairing your socks. I miss watching you light up a room, and thinking how proud and grateful I was because you were mine. I miss going out and getting drunk together. I miss standing in the cold whilst you smoked a cigarette. I miss putting my hand on your leg under the table. I miss the feel of your stubble on my face. I miss your soft, pale skin and your weight on top of me. I miss the quiet joy of being loved. I miss loving you.
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