An animal screams outside.
It's 10:45 at night and I can't sleep because I don't want to see her face.
I don't want see her eyes: his big, wet eyes asking me "Why?"
There's never a dream I have that she's not in.
Whether it's a starring role or as an extra—waiting on the fringes—she's there.
And she always asks me with her eyes.
She asks me why.
But that's how I know when it's a dream.
Because those same eyes, that I stare into everyday, don't ask me anything anymore.
They never judge, they never question…
They just stare, blankly ahead.
She understands why, which is sometimes the only way I can tell when it's a dream.
It's usually hard to tell because she's always there, just waiting on the fringes. She almost always looks different but I know it's her.
Even when I'm awake, I see her everywhere.
Every stranger I meet is a shadow of her…and soon they look at me in the same way she looked at me.
It's that same look, that same strange, wondering gaze that plagues my love no more.
I freed her from her bondage. But it seems my work is never done.
Just when I think I've given her the peace she needs, I see her again, in another's face, another's eyes.
And I know the job isn't finished.
This strange paradise of consistently being the hero of my love story is so fulfilling for me.
For once, I am the champion of my own dreams.