The Different Points Of View
We spent a night apart.
You told me how you dreamed that I was on the top floor of a Brooklyn apartment with my mom, and you were outside on the street with your mom, yelling up at me to come down. I refused to come down, I refused to let you up. Another boy floated into your dream, into my apartment, and I welcomed him with open arms while the whole world stared at you, screaming, in the middle of a crowded street.
You asked me what I dreamed that night.
I was silent.
How could I tell you that I dreamed of my first love and I in the back of a taxicab in the city? He begged me to stay. Mascara-stained tears fell down my cheekbone hills, reflecting my inner struggle between my wants and my responsibilities. I told him I had to leave and get married, or I would never get over him and always return to his ghost. My heart splintered, as I stepped out of the cab in a white dress to walk down the empty city streets to you.
I held you tight, wishing that my dream had been different, wishing I had come down to you in your dream, knowing why I didn’t.