A Dream I Had About You
You came to me tonight
not in a doorway,
not beneath some dramatic sky—
but through a glowing screen.
A quiet notification.
Your name blinking like a pulse.
You said what we built
wasn’t really truth—
just a careful play,
a script rehearsed for him.
Lines delivered well.
Applause imagined.
Curtains never fully rising.
You told me
you were never serious.
Not really.
Not in the way gravity is serious
or fire is serious.
And yet—
you didn’t want it to end.
That was the strange part.
If it was only theater,
why did your words tremble?
Why did the typing dots pause
as if they were thinking twice?
In the dream
I wasn’t angry.
Just standing there
inside the blue glow of you,
trying to understand
how something unreal
could feel this real.
Maybe we were actors
who forgot which parts were written
and which parts were ours.
Maybe pretending long enough
creates a kind of truth.
You said it wasn’t love.
But you stayed.
You kept texting.
You didn’t log out.
And when I woke,
the silence felt heavier
than any confession.
Dreams are strange laboratories.
They mix fear with longing
and call it memory.
But somewhere between
“it wasn’t real”
and
“don’t let it end,”
there was a crack in the script.
And I think
that’s where the truth was hiding.
