I dreamt about him. He stood next to me, I couldn’t see his face, but I could observe his hair, guess the strength of his blood through the pulsating vein on his neck.
I remember him showing me something and smiling at me. I can’t know what and why. I think the dream was brief - how can we really measure the eternity of a dream? - I woke up thinking of him and, for three weeks now, he has been haunting my thoughts.
I wondered what he was, I went around the few men I knew. I observed those I met on the street, in the subway, my eyes linger as much on what is beginning as on what is ending. I came to question my ideals, vague as my desire for happiness, and then I stopped looking elsewhere for people, in these inaccessible paradises.
After a time of silence, he came back to me; I ended up, I think, recognizing him without him saying a word or making a gesture. I don’t really dare to question or name him yet. Is this obvious? I dreamed of myself, of who I am, what I have been, what I have done since all this time I remember so little. I can hardly talk about it. This man is inside me, he leaves me so often, he goes on his ship and promises to come back. I am his future widow, although, to be honest, I know he will survive me.
I dreamt of him, of me, I wait for his return so that he can tell me about his adventures so that he can feed me. I want to understand it, to know it. He is the one and only true companion. No wonder I looked for it and I’m still looking for it in my friends, lovers, strangers.
I miss him.