I had a dream about you again last night. I was floating down a river, my arms outstretched, hair swaying with the ease of the current and my eyes set on the clouds above me. The sun was soon to be replaced by the moon and as I drifted toward land, I saw you sitting by the water's edge. You look up and see me, eyes wide and eager, and as we make our way toward each other, the current picks up and I can't swim against it.
I try to reach for you, desperate for my fingers to meet yours, but the river is moving too fast and I get caught in the rush down stream. As I drift further, all I see is you standing against the rocky landscape on the bank, powerless and unable to help me.
I don't know why whenever I dream about you it's as though we are two worlds apart, never fully in unison, always lingering away right when we're about to be together.
Sometimes before I go to sleep I ask that just once we can finally touch hands, lock arms around each other, breathe in the other's air. But every night when I sleep, you're either miles away or right in front of me, and still, I can never reach you.
It's funny, I'm beginning to wonder if I ever really had you when we were together; if you were ever truly mine.
When the stars come out tonight I'll ask for a different request. I'll ask that if I must dream of you, that even if you are in the distance or nearby, that I don't see you; that you don't reach for me.
I don't know how many nights I've spent searching for your eyes, like a lighthouse among a darkened sky, waiting for you to lead me home.
But you are no longer home and I think it's time that I let you go.