Temporary

So I lay in bed the other night, nonchalant about everything that had settled just like dust around me. Feathers, light, undemanding in any physical manner. Yet mentally heavy. It was dark, the room, pitch black. There was not a chance I could even feel the ends of the bedsheet with my toes. Alas, a deep breath and a sense of whirling motion stirred liveliness. All of a sudden, it was thumping. My chest, my brain, everything enclosed within the perimeters of my room. Then came flashes, bright but dim, and alarmingly garish in few specks of light. In that dream, you were with me, walking. And when I looked into your gaze, you showed me how everything was meant to work.

Hush, said you. And then, we sauntered, we traipsed, we hopped - all along the rocky pavements, traffic surrounding us. In all this, though, was serenity. Peace, rather, that wrapped us all over with such assurance, so that we knew we were never going to perish from the embrace of each other. We were permanent. But you would change your mind and let go, the muscles in your fingers slowly untightening, letting loose of a grip that meant the world to both you and I. I continued peering into that expression which was then blurred by the glare of the sun, but I knew, for a certain reason - that you wanted to leave, that you needed to get away from it all.

Azure...blank. This instant did not feel much like reality. So, tell me. Why did you have to appear in my dream every single night?