I wish I could forward the cozy feeling dreams can produce by dressing fragments of them into words that clumsily attempt to describe them. I wish these words could transmit at least a part of that perfect everything I have such a real memory of without physically having experienced it. The playful touch of fingertips on my bare neck and shoulder, the feeling of being pulled next to someone. Little details like a smile, having full awareness; almost being omniscient. It's as if telling a story while being a part of it; how quickly infinite joy disappears and is replaced by utter indifference. I miss [you] in my dreams.
I may swallow words, but this swallows me whole.
There was a big house in the woods on a warm summer's day, a family wearing happy faces and a white car that had three flat tires. There was a party, but I couldn't find my black dress with white spots on it and portraits were painted of young couples; the husband-to-be was to stand a little to the back of their bride-to-be, and I watched from the side as I had no one. Half of the family wasn't properly dressed and it all seemed to be falling apart, but all the while everything was fine.
I don't know how the confusing party in the back yard of the house turned into my senior cruise, and the ship had odd holes and a maze only I could solve. I threw a shoe at someone.
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