You And Me, One More Time

I’d like to think that one day, you and I will see each other again.

I’d like to think that if I hopped on a plane and came to the old town we used to talk about, you’d be there. Sometimes I lie in bed at night, envisioning it all. A moonlit walk as the sun rises, taken to explore daybreak in the city, wandering slowly to your favorite square. Somewhere in the misty morning I see your hands, your arms, the curls of your hair, the strength of your jaw.

You’d be there, waiting for me.

At least, I hope you would be.

In the end, there’s expectation, and then there’s the cold, bleak harshness of reality.

I’ll never see your face again. I’ll never touch your hands or smell your cologne or feel your curls in my hair, pressed to my face as you make love to me.

You’ll never fit inside of me again.

Even if we tried, I know it wouldn’t be the same.

There is a sweetness to that melancholy, kind of like a cocktail with a hint of bitters.

I couldn’t have dreamed it a million times better, you know, but when I ache at night to feel my cheeks above your chest, I wonder if dreaming of you is all I ever really did. I somehow cancelled out the lies and made way in my fantasies for something purer.

In the back of my mind, there’s the way we used to be, but there exists a simultaneous and much more tempting matrix of what we could have been.

My God, babe. We could have been the world.

We could have been a love that no one else has ever even thought of experiencing, the kind of love that changes the world. We could have lived that fantasy together, you and I, instead of shattering it like a mirror in the way we did. Such a juvenile thought that these things come twice. How stupid we had been.

I dreamt of you the other night. I’d ascended up the stairway straight to heaven and you were there above the clouds, hands held out like you were carrying bird seed. You looked me straight in the eyes and you said, “It was always going to be us.”

Life never quite writes itself the way it does in our dreams, does it?

You and I, we were so much worse and so much better than I could have ever imagined.

In the end, it was a modern fairytale. A classic story of forbidden love, of passion, of possession, of miscommunication, of separation, and though it was toxic, my God, it was love.

Not the kind of love I’ll ever dare to relive, but the kind I’m grateful God allowed me to die from once so I could rise above the ashes and revive myself alone.

That, my dear, is reality, and I think it’s even better than my dreams.

About the author
Healing wounds with love and letters. Follow Laura on Instagram or read more articles from Laura on Thought Catalog.

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