When Dreaming Ends
I lie here, curled up in your old shirt. I still wear it, you know. Even though it's too big
for me and the color is starting to fade. Sometimes when I wear it I think I can smell you
again. That is what I miss, you know. The smells. The smell of tobacco and gin, of
sweat and dreams and always, always, something that I could not identify. They linger in
my memory, even when all else has become threadbare.
My hair lies tangled across my shoulders. You used to like that, I think. You said it was
when I looked my best, although I'm sure you were joking. You always were doing that, joking
around. Some guy could put a bullet in your back, and you'd still find something humorous about
the situation. You always made me laugh. I wish you could make me laugh now.
I can feel the cold steel gun beneath my pillow. I hope it rusts there from disuse. I carry
it with me, this heavy burden, this reminder of who I am and where I come from. It brings me
comfort and sorrow all at once. It protects me, and it enslaves me.
I have just woken up, but I feel as though I'm still dreaming. I lie here and wonder whether
any of it was real at all. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe this is a dream now. Was my
life real, and most of all, were you? To me you were a phantom, a vision, a fleeting moment of
happiness that was too perfect to be true. Yes, it was a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. Perhaps
it was a little of both. And yet, if indeed this is a dream, what will I find when I wake up?
Will I find that you never existed at all? Will I find that all that I cling to is a mere
figment of my imagination?
I lie here, and I shift from dream to dream. I lie here, thinking of you.
And I dread the day when dreaming ends.
I lie here, curled up in your old shirt. I still wear it, you know. Even though it's too big
for me and the color is starting to fade. Sometimes when I wear it I think I can smell you
again. That is what I miss, you know. The smells. The smell of tobacco and gin, of
sweat and dreams and always, always, something that I could not identify. They linger in
my memory, even when all else has become threadbare.
My hair lies tangled across my shoulders. You used to like that, I think. You said it was
when I looked my best, although I'm sure you were joking. You always were doing that, joking
around. Some guy could put a bullet in your back, and you'd still find something humorous about
the situation. You always made me laugh. I wish you could make me laugh now.
I can feel the cold steel gun beneath my pillow. I hope it rusts there from disuse. I carry
it with me, this heavy burden, this reminder of who I am and where I come from. It brings me
comfort and sorrow all at once. It protects me, and it enslaves me.
I have just woken up, but I feel as though I'm still dreaming. I lie here and wonder whether
any of it was real at all. Maybe it was all a dream. Maybe this is a dream now. Was my
life real, and most of all, were you? To me you were a phantom, a vision, a fleeting moment of
happiness that was too perfect to be true. Yes, it was a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. Perhaps
it was a little of both. And yet, if indeed this is a dream, what will I find when I wake up?
Will I find that you never existed at all? Will I find that all that I cling to is a mere
figment of my imagination?
I lie here, and I shift from dream to dream. I lie here, thinking of you.
And I dread the day when dreaming ends.