Oh, my beautiful Bez, how I dream of you tonight.
My sleep has been light, interrupted by dream upon dream of you.
In one, we are in a small house in the middle of a field of red poppies, a tiny bent and crooked house, painted white, red brick chimney built at impossible angles. A warm breeze makes waves of color through the flowers, which I can see through the window of the bedroom. You wear a dress colored the same as the flowers outside. You reach forward and brush your fingers against the curve of my cheek, and then I wake.
When I fall back to sleep, the next dream places us in a featureless room, illuminated with a soft purple light the color of thistle. I can’t tell if we are sitting or standing or floating in the air, and I don’t want to look away from you to find out. You stare at me, your hair pulled back tightly away from your face, your white shirt buttoned up to your neck. Suddenly and without moving, you are somehow in front of me, and you lean forward to put your lips against my ear, and you whisper something, something secret and full of deep meaning, the words lost to me as I rise up again from sleep, from the purple light and into the darkness of night.
In my final dream, you are walking to me across the still surface of a calm pond. You make no ripple on the water. It’s as if you are walking on glass. As you draw closer, your clothing begins to fall away, shred by shred, not dropping from you but rather turning to water themselves, running off you and melting into the pond as you walk. When at last you stand before me, you are as naked in my dream as I am in my bed in the real world. You reach for me. You are perfection.
I wake, and for a moment I believe that I am still dreaming.
Then your hand touches my face and I know that it is not a dream.
My beautiful Bez.
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