Morning

At 6:00 am, the sky was beginning to lighten. It was fully dark at 3:30. That's the time I woke up, after a night of fitful sleep. In the background, an all-night talker at the end of his shift murmured softly on the radio I neglected to turn off when I climbed into bed.

I had dreams in the night. Most I don't remember, but one, a repeat visitor to my dark nights, was vivid. In it, the woman I love, the woman who professes to love me but feels unable to express it, paid a visit. She put her hand on my face, looked into my eyes and said the words I need to hear, the loving words that would close the wounds, erase the scars. She was there, so real that I could feel her warm touch.

And then I was awake, staring into the impenetrable darkness, facing reality: the wounds remain, open and painful. So do the scars. I left my dream behind and re-entered my nightmare.

How else can one describe a life in which the only possible expression of love is to stay away from the person one loves?

People wish each other "sweet dreams" when parting for the night. It's a nice sentiment; I've said it, and meant it, many times.

But do not wish me "sweet dreams," please, for they only serve to point out the hideous contrast between my waking hours as they are and the way I wish them to be.

Another day begins. I cannot say I am entirely happy about that.