Waking Up Alone

It's been awhile since I've had a dream like this. A dream so real that the world I wake to feels like the dream instead. A dream with smells and tastes and a touch that still vibrates my skin long after the dream fades away. This dream made me cry, reach out to empty air, trying to pull the peace I felt back into me. Failing.

I should say that I am not generally lonely. I do have moments in which I feel lonely, in which I long to be touched -- warm arms around me, a sweet caress on my face, the comforting weight of a strong hand on my back. But most of the time I am too busy living my life to be lonely. I have so many loving friends and family members around me all the time that it's hard to feel alone. I am making plans and carrying them out, communing with my pets, my inner child, my sense of self, and I don't feel lonely at all. But every once in a great while, an intangible sadness hits me hard, leaves me breathless almost, and I have to fight to remind myself that I am complete.

But it's always worse when I don't see it coming. When I go to weddings, when I spend too much time with loving couples, when my Azure Anniversary comes around (in June, and in January), I expect to feel the wave of loneliness sweep over me in mild, fleeting waves. I face it, and ride it out, and it passes, quickly and gently, leaving me to enjoy the sweet curves and corners of this path of sometime-solitude I have found myself walking. When I expect it, I can ride above it, like floating in a tide pool.

But unexpected loneliness hits like a tidal wave and can almost drag me under. I woke up this morning, almost drowned in the sadness that hit me like a hard wall of water, choking the breath of a sweet, peaceful morning from my lungs.

The dream:

I see him standing in line at a grocery store. I don't notice him at first, walk right past with my ten items or less, but he calls my name, twice, and I finally turn to look. He stands head and shoulders taller than the women in line in front of him, and is as handsome as the day I fell in love with him. The slight gap in his front teeth, the only thing between him and model-esque perfection, shows in his smile when I meet his eyes. It disappears again as I turn to walk away without a word.

"Wait! Don't go!" I hear that same tenor voice that once kept me up for hours on the phone. "Wait! I need to talk to you!" I turn back, ready to unleash the full fury of nine years of wondering how he could have hurt me the way he did, of the insecurity of wondering what was wrong with me, the frustration of being lonely without him while he was not lonely without me.

"I need to tell you I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I know I did, and I'm so sorry...I love you." Nine years of fantasizing the moment when I finally get to see him beg for my forgiveness, of planning fancy speeches that eloquently demonstrate at once my deep hurt and benevolent forgiveness, and the only thing that comes out of my mouth is, "You broke my heart." He still has the upper hand, after all this time.

"I know I did, and I was so wrong. I was stupid. I could never get you out of my head after you left. I dream about you still. I dream about the way your cheeks flush when you're mad, or excited. About the way your small hands felt holding mine, the way you used to kiss each one of my fingers. I miss you so much."

"I don't know what to say. I can't say I don't miss you, but what am I supposed to do, just fall into your arms? You tore my heart out and I never put it back together. What am I supposed to do?" I sound more desperate than benevolent.

"I just want to hold you. Please?"

And there it is, that look, the one that melted my resolve every time. The one that turned the steel in my backbone to molten lava, made my knees quiver, my skin tingle. Nine years, and its power hasn't diminished even a tiny little bit. I stand frozen, unable to deny him, unsure if I want to, and he takes my silence as an invitation to move closer. So close now I can feel the heat of his body on mine, heat in familiar but long-dormant places in my own body, my own heart, my own mind. He touches my cheek, one gentle finger up the side like he used to do, and I melt into him.

He pulls me close, wraps his strong, so-strong arms around me, holding me as tight as the day our baby died inside me. I tuck my head into his shoulder; it fits perfectly, as if we were designed to fit together. Maybe we were, I think. We stand in endless time, locked together as if the past nine years could dissolve between us into nothing. Me feeling as if they had already begun to.

Suddenly, we are not in the store. We are on a bed, in a dark room, moonlight spilling across our bodies. There is no sex; maybe there was, or will be, I don’t know, but this moment is all about tender touch. I trace the lines of his back with my finger, kissing his shoulder when I get to the top. He lays back, and I run both hands down his chest, down his hips, over the tops of his thighs, all the way down to his feet. They are as groomed as they ever were; short, clean nails, even, straight toes, nothing out of order. My hands slide lightly back up his legs again, palms only, reveling in the coarseness of his hair. Up, up, up my hands slide, finally coming to rest on his chest, as I settle into his side, where I always rested so peacefully before.

A wave of anxiety hits me; I become terrified that I will wake up and find it has been just a cruel dream. But his hand captures mine and holds it to his heart, and I relax. It couldn’t be a dream; I can feel his heartbeat, and the tiny calluses on his thumbs.

We both lay still, breathing evenly, in sync, and I trace swirl patterns on his chest, examining the texture of his skin with my fingertips, my eyes, my heart. He doesn’t say anything, just wears that slight, crooked smile that always made my pulse race. We lay there for minutes, hours, centuries, just us, our peace, skin on skin, warmth and love. The peace stretches out past forever, all hurt forgotten. I sigh and relax into his side, drifting off to sleep…

I wake up shivering in my own bed. I pull the covers over me, but the cold is deeper than the goose-bumps on my legs. The tidal wave hits; I feel tears well up, a sharp pain in my chest. Something like desperation. “God,” I pray, “I need to be touched. I was not made to be alone.”

I lay quietly for several minutes, trying to pull my longing back into me, to crush it back down to a manageable size. I curse the recent romantic comedy I watched, the last wedding I went to, my own stupid, silly feminine heart. I slowly, slowly get a grip.

I know why I dream about him. He is the only person whose heart I have felt beating in time with mine, the only person whose entire length of skin has laid against mine. His shoulder is the only one I have rested my head on to fall asleep, his arms the only ones which have anchored me to my dreams. The pragmatic girl who worked it out and moved on, who knows how ridiculous the idea of us being anything more than a story in time, that knows that the me I am would not recognize, or even want, the him that he is now – that smart, together girl doesn’t dream. The me of dreams is the silly teenager who fell in love with the spontaneous, romantic boy who wasn’t ready to love anyone yet, even himself. She doesn’t know about letting go, moving on, about deserving better or being complete on her own. She longs for the comfort of his tender arms, how he used to hold her and tell her she was beautiful. She doesn’t know that when she dreams of him, I will be the one who wakes up alone