Then I Wake

For I was writing this one late at night when you suddenly sent me a text and I was startled, and my dream was interrupted.

And then I wake—

the light spills over me,

dazzling, blinding,

as if the sun itself has come to claim me.

You’re there, your eyes narrowed in gentle, familiar annoyance,

shaking me awake,

as though I’ve been lost in a thousand years of slumber.

“How much longer are you going to sleep?” you ask, your voice light and teasing,

but it cuts through me,

its sharpness softened by something deeper—

something warm,

like a memory I can’t quite touch.

I rise and find myself in a field that stretches infinitely,

a world where the sun never fades,

where light swells endlessly,

where time itself is but a forgotten dream.

You look the same as I remember,

and yet, so much more—

your form aglow,

as if made of stardust and daydreams,

glowing from within,

as though you belong to the world of fantasy,

and not the one I had to live in.

You are not real. I know this.

But then again, perhaps neither am I.

I glance at my arms, my legs,

and I recognize the me that was,

the one untouched by sorrow,

the one who could still hope,

before the world hardened my heart.

And you—

you are not the one I knew on earth,

the one who broke me.

No, you are the one I conjured in the quietest parts of me,

the version of you that exists only in the hollow places

between my longing and my need.

The one who filled the gaps left by the man you used to be.

You were the truth I had always been searching for,

the one I waited for without even knowing it.

You are what he could never be—

what he was too afraid to be,

what he never allowed himself to become.

You are the version of him,

crafted just for me,

the one made of love,

of all the things that were once too broken to survive.

For surely, I deserve happiness

at least in one life, don’t I?

I reach for you,

and my hands tremble,

as though I fear that touching you

might make you disappear.

I pinch your arm and cheeks, I hold your face,

desperate to make this dream a reality.

You smirk, tilting your head with that familiar, exasperated look—

a mixture of affection and pride.

“Who else could it be, you silly girl?” you say,

and your voice dances with that teasing edge,

the one that’s always half-mockery, half-love,

as though I should know this is real—

as though I should know you are real.

You roll your eyes,

your pride and reluctance to explain yourself

making you feel larger than life itself—

a force I could never understand,

but one I could never stop craving.

But I see it—

the soft knowing in your gaze,

the things you don’t need to say,

the truths that linger between us,

unspoken, yet felt so deeply.

Because this version of us understood each other even in our silences.

I pull you into me,

burying my face in your chest,

tears flowing freely now,

as if the weight of this moment might tear me apart.

We tumble into the grass,

laughing, rolling,

you teasing me, your words sharp but soft,

me trying to hold onto this impossible moment.

My heart is too full, too broken,

to believe that I can touch you now,

to believe that you are here,

right in front of me.

But it seems to last forever, and it's just us in our world,

doing all the things we always dreamed of doing together.

But then—

the dream splinters,

shattering like glass beneath the weight of reality.

I wake with a shock,

startled by the harsh sound of your texts,

your words pulling me back into the waking world,

a world that is so much less than this place.

And there you are—

not the dream of you,

but the real you—

the one I try to escape from.

You are not here to hold me,

not here to make this hurt go away.

No, you are here to wake me

just to hurt me again,

to punish me for daring to even dream of you.

I wish I could meet you in the field instead.

© 2024 Inaba Tarek