I’ve started looking through old journals and papers searching for inspiration for new posts or even just for old material that I wanted to share.  I’ve found a lot of things I think will work.  Here’s something I wrote a couple of years ago.  Read, enjoy, and feel free to comment.

            I dreamt of him again.  Upon waking I was filled with a guilt that was overshadowed by the intense longing inspired while I slept.  Each time the dream is different, yet the same.  The situation varies, as do the words, but the feeling is the same.  I wish I knew what had started this, but I’m just not sure.  I hadn’t thought about him in a long time, a couple of years of so.  After our last correspondence I thought I would never hear from him again, that my words had just caused too much pain.  I never meant to hurt him; I didn’t think he had cared enough to be hurt by what I said.  The years of silence that followed told a different story, a very lonely story.  One night I dreamt so vividly I thought it was real…

Laying in bed closer to sleep than the warm body next to me, the phone rang.  I answered quickly so as not to awaken the sleeping figure at my side, and was shocked to full wakefulness by a voice I had never thought to hear again.

“Hello” he said, “I hoped you would answer.  Are you alone?”

“No”, I whispered.

“Is he asleep?”

“Yes.”

It was good that all I was required to say were single syllables.  I was having a difficult enough time breathing that conversation was a daunting prospect.  Again the voice speaks.

“I know it’s been awhile, but I wanted to hear your voice, and there are things we need to discuss.  I know you can’t say much now, so I’ll call again when he’s at work.  Is tomorrow clear?”

I could feel the tension on the other end of the line stretch taut in the moment of silence before I answered,

“Yes, after noon, it’s a 24 hour shift.”

“Good.  I’ll call tomorrow evening then.  You just be there, okay?  Until then…Love You…”

I heard a click and dialtone, then cradled the phone as I lay there stunned, my thoughts frozen and mind numb.  I shook myself out of my reverie and settled back under the covers, my hand resting hesitantly on the warm shoulder in front of me as my mind raced.  With the dawning awareness that accompanies waking, I realized with regret-tinged shock that it had been a dream.

            Since that first dream there have been many others, some remembered, others not.  In some, the face is not even recognizable, but somehow I always know that it is him.  Of course, there are dreams of others, also.  There always have been.  Dreams of people I’ve met, or friends, or even just someone seen in passing.  Those dreams are often painful upon waking, as my conscience does not allow me the option of being with another man.  A single fantasy of kissing another can leave me guilt-ridden and depressed for days.  The thought of making love with someone else can drive me to confess it and beg forgiveness, all the time uttering reassurances that it would never happen, I could never do that.  But it’s not the same when I dream of him.  No matter what the scenario or what I do, the guilt is not there.  Perhaps a slight uneasiness, a sense that something is not quite right, but not to the point of guilt.  They seem to be pervaded by an overwhelming sense of longing that persists even after the dreams themselves fade from memory.