Fiction/Prose

Dreams in Chrysanthemum Colours

In violet tinged dreams I line your room with chrysanthemums; red, pink, yellow, white… A shade for every hue of my adoration, my gentle rejection, my admiration and infatuation, my desperate desire for honesty.

When I wake my mouth is a desert. My eyelids sticky and sweet as honey, the sheets tangled beneath my legs remind me of you, the water glass I lift to my chapped lips, too, and I imagine it is you that cools and refreshes and revives me. It is too easy to forget how your fingers are cursed with a calamitous touch: an uncontrollable flaming force wrapped in softest velvet.

I obsess, I know. I am consumed, still as willing as ever.

In my hazy, gaudy, kaleidoscopic dreams I am drowning in the stinging, salty waves, thinking that you are the ocean: deep, mysterious, unpredictable, beautiful, wild… But you are the shore, and you are so far away, so far removed from me, my strange dance suspended in the inky blackness. My fingers and toes wrinkle, ghostly grey shadows under the crashing waves, unreal, as my body lurches and writhes and convulses. Or, you are the sun, watching unashamedly, shining as brightly as ever while my lungs fill and fill and fill. And fill and fill and fill; there is no end.

In the morning I watch the shadows on the wall as they grow and mutate with the rising sun and I think of you, the you that is ever-changing, ever-moving, and I think that I have thought too much, that I don’t know what is real and what is mixed up in dreams, washed in blue.

In those dreams you are everything: mountains, oceans, forests, shadows, beams of light, rain drops on flower petals, the wind between leaves, the first and last lines of every song, worn out book pages, precious stones, a flickering candle, a child’s laughter… Everything but a human being.

My dreams paint this lie of romance, of perfection, of sweetness and silky passion, and I fall into it, I cover myself in it, I drink it in like syrup and there I stay, there I will always be, feeling it burning in my wrists, pulsating in my neck, tingling in my fingertips, dizzy and sick with it, always clinging to the memory of being deeply, absolutely in love.

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