Vague Like Fog
There’s something about you that’s so insubstantial.
In my dreams, you blend into a milky-white fog. Always somewhere of in the distance. And when I reach the spot where I saw you vanish, of course you’re gone. But a strange, eerie feeling begins to creep over my skin. Like you’ve become part of the air.
And when I wake from that dream and the many dreams like it, there is a vague aching that overtakes my soul. And a coldness that grips me.
I can never fall back to sleep again after a dream like that.
So I roll over, and huddle into a mass of blankets that can’t seem to keep me warm, with an image of you in my mind that only perpetuates the chills.
I don’t know why that image haunts me, but for days I can’t seem to get away from it. You, vanishing into the distance, fading back into white. The ghost of a vague dream of a vague figure I used to know.
It’s after dreams like that that I think of picking up the phone to call you, but I can never seem to bring myself to dial your number.