The Dream

She awoke with the taste of the kiss fading on her lips.  Opening her eyes, she was confused, bewildered by her surroundings. It had all seemed so real; she had forgotten that this was her bed, her room, her life. The dream was still fresh but she could feel her heart breaking, turning it all into a nightmare. The bright flowers of hope that had sprung up in the garden of the midnight sun withered quickly under the harsh glare of the morning light, tormenting her with the truth.


The tears that sprung from the well of her eyes were real enough. She sat up, shaking her head. She looked around and tried to remember. Already it was too late. Already, the sun stole the dream, and she hated its brightness for taking her hope, and then she hated the dream for its false beauty. And then she hated herself for succumbing to its call.


She left the warm arms of her bed, wrapped around her like his had been. In the dream. She reminded herself it was just a dream. She stared at the unmade bed. The wrinkled blankets were empty. Her heart echoed deep in her breast, also empty. She closed her eyes and searched the darkness in her mind for a face, a voice, a hand. Ghosts and shadows were all she could find.


She sighed and went to the sink. Her eyes were bright as she met them in the mirror. She could almost see the happiness that had dwelt in them, chased away by the tearstains. She turned quickly away and snatched the towel off its rack. When it was drenched in ice-cold water, she scrubbed her face and looked again. Bright flowers danced behind her eyes, but her heart was heavy. She tried to remember why, but the sun was too bright.

2003 Sonja Torres


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