The dream is always the same, always arriving when my defenses are lowered, always when I’ve begun to move on.
It’s late night and I’m walking through the empty city streets. I recognize a gait, the back of his head, he’s wearing a shirt I’ve never seen before. He begins to jog across the road and he’s almost across when a voice that is not my own calls his name, rising up and out of my chest, thumping from the very hollows of my heart. He stops. Waits to turn. It’s the side of his face that excites my blood, when every muscle tenses and the world pauses. My breathing slows and then seems to reverse as though every breath is an inhale and my lungs never stop expanding. I’m fit to burst when his eyes finally meet mine.
There are no words exchanged. No excuses or explanations. He moves through my dream towards me fluidly like two water droplets joining. He picks me up and I wrap my legs around his waist, bury my face in his neck, inhale inhale inhale his scent.
He carries me.
Sometimes for hours, sometimes minutes, once in awhile just for a second or two.
I always wake up the same way, unrested, blinking my eyes into a blank stare, exhaling heavily as though all night I’d been suffering, as though all night long I was holding my breath.
Andrew Bird – Cataracts