Painting by Yvan Favre

He always told me about his dreams in the most vivid manner. Whether I’d be able to comprehend or not, he just needed someone who would listen to what went on in his mind. Often they were nightmares, but not once did he dream of me. Not once was I his waking thought, or soothing lullaby. But dear god, was he mine.

I remember waking up to his beautiful face beside me. Lost in sleep, curled up in the that blanket we were supposed to be sharing, but what I gave him most of anyway. He was an artwork that I could stare at for hours. Mesmerized by the freckles on his nose – which were almost blended into his tanned skin, his lips which tended to puff in the mornings, (but even then, I’d long to kiss them). His wild hair, consisting of long curls which always managed to land up in his face. I usually stroked them away, feeling the warmth of his tender skin. I knew his face like the back of my hand, and I thought I knew his soul too.

I cannot remember his face as clearly anymore.

Even though I can recall his strong hands and the feeling they gave me upon touch, the cigarette burn on his left arm, and of course, his broad shoulders which protected me from the cruel world, but not from his cruel heart.

Along with his dreams, he fascinated me by the thing he always said. He had crazy little theories about the stars, man’s existence and he even had some conspiracy theories about the deaths of Kurt Cobain and Sylvia Plath. We’d argue and agree about most of these, and other things for hours on end. Whether we were lying on his roof, staring at the constellations or sitting on a bench alongside the ocean, embracing the beautiful nature that surrounded us, embracing each other. But my favorite place of ours was in his back garden. Two chairs, a shading oak tree and a quietness that only heard our hearts beating.

Of course my heart would always beat faster, my stare was always longer, and my touch was always softer. I loved him with all that I could, and he still did not stay. He didn’t fight for me, he didn’t try harder when things got difficult.

He simply let go.

What was once a beautiful young love, turned poisonous in a matter of days. He was my happiness and heartache all the same, leaving me empty with nothing but his dreams and broken memories that I will never get back.

I wonder if he still gets those nightmares, because I know that I do. However, mine are relived moments with him. It is like listening to your favorite song, but knowing that you’ll never be able to hear it again. One day I will find a new melody, a new dream, and maybe then will he not fascinate me any longer.

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Submitted anonimously to ArtParasites

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