05 September, 2007

Away on a Cloud


My dearest one,

The night has long since descended, and you have fallen asleep; I am sure of it. I cannot see the rise and fall of your chest, nor can I hear the faint whisper of a snore you sometimes make. I can't watch the way your eyelids jerk, making me think that you're in the midst of a terrible dream. I can't feel the gradual slowing of your heartbeat, your body easing into rest effortlessly. And yet I know they're all happening, and it's the knowing that hurts so much. The knowing that, in a different life, I could pack up and join you on a moment's notice; that, in a different world, we would never be apart.

All I can do is hold on tight to this blue blanket, these brown sheets, this soft pillow. All I can do is try to make this empty bed a little less daunting by bunching it all up in my arms. All I can do is to just keep swimming, yearning for the day when our different worlds are different no longer.

There is a time, some say, just before sleep takes over, when you unlock hidden creativities and gain access to ideas kept behind bars by your subconscious. Images emerge that your mind has formulated without your knowledge, and you are captive to your own desires. As I start to enter this place, I see you, high up in the sky, sailing away on a cloud. In a way this image is comforting, knowing that you're exploring the sky safely on a pillowy cushion. But in a way, it is unsettling.

I hope against hope that the winds change soon. That you will come floating back to me. That we can share the clouds, you and I, my love.

Yours, achingly.

 
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