I relearned you in a dream.

My subconscious takes me down every path that leads me to you. Subconsciously, of course. It’s on my side. You and I were on the same side. In the metro car traveling beneath D.C. On the bench resting in the Roanoke mall. Laying in the Gladys roads after dark. My town, not yours. Now you tell me you’ll be coming to the place where I live. Not coming for me. But you’d always call for me. We talked about baby names late at night. On the phone for hundreds of minutes. All for fun. Playing pretend that was always a little real. My reality now: you aren’t within my vision. I want to see through the eyes of the people who surround you. I want to see you. I want to look and look and look and look. And look. Doesn’t matter that I have you memorized already. Thick eyebrows. The freckles in your green eyes. The way you’re proud of your full eyelashes when they stick together in the corners. The white flesh between your thumb and index finger in otherwise tanned skin. The veins in your wrists. Your slim fingers. The way you were proud of taking my hand as we were crossing the street, leaving the carnival. You’d tell me I’m being silly. I’d tell you I loved you for a long time.