The only time I see you is in my sleep.

Hmm it's 11:15PM. I think that's an OK time to sleep. I guess I'm pretty tired. My eyelids have that feeling. Where you close them and then it suddenly feels as if that's the place they were always meant to be at. And you're suddenly made aware of the ache that was there when they were open. I imagine my eyelids meeting, my eyelashes intertwining in soulful embrace, my pupils dilating and yet the light in them dimming. For my soul has doused the lamps, put on its PJs and has climbed into bed.

I know of the amount of backlog I have in my drawers. I stuff them with socks and fluffy underwear till they're soft and welcoming, like a big poofy bed of whiteness. And I slumber deep deep deep with sheep and mice from my cartoon childhood. (Not the ugly kind with diseases I hate diseases). I hear the tinkling of little lullaby music and I'm a child again.

And I dream dream dream. Dream dream dream dream (to the tune of the Everly Brothers) and I see you because, of course, the only time you ever get to be real to me is in dreaming. And even though it isn't real, even though I wake up and the voices of Austin Hartley-Leonard and Kendall Jane Meade resound in my head ("the only time I see you is in my sleep"), I still am truly happy for them. Because what's the point of dreams if they're about things that already happen in real life?