Arcadia

69

October is strange. I have run out of moments to freeze and keep in poems and the whatever remains of last night's high is fading out. I see the world as it is, mundane and colourless. I have an exam to sit tomorrow. My vision fades and simmers. I had a dream about him last night. It was vaguely erotic, we were in a room, there was a window with trees outside. I held him close, and I can feel the shape of his body in my arms still. I never imagined a dream could turn into a memory. But it was a sad dream, and that is what I remember most of all, a lingering sorrow that pervades everything. The day slips away, slowly, sadly. He hasn't called me yet. I don't know what this evening is supposed to be, desolate, unhappy, or simply wasted?

I put on the lights and get a cup of tea. I think I am sad. I think I want to cry because the dream was so beautiful and I will never dream another one like that again. Can you mourn a memory that is also a dream? Perhaps. But there's no point in crying anyway, so I don't. I should start studying for the exam. Every love story is a tragedy. Night falls, and I am alone again.

He still hasn't called.