Writing, it is what we do late at night when the universe has left us with just our own subconsciousness, ebbing and flowing like a tide effected by the waxing and waning of the moon.  I start this evening out with my favorite cliché type similes.  I wish I could see the smile on his face right now, the gleam in his eye as it is caught in the light.  To kiss him, the natural next step.  To interlace my fingers around his neck, one hand freeing itself then to run through his hair.  My whole life is caught up in a hopeless romantic dream.  I dream about the moonlit world.  I dream about sandy soft beaches that fall out beneath me as I rise to count the stars.  There is really nothing left of my own consciousness now.  I think I could sift through the dream memories, I think I could find one that stands out so much it  becomes less of lucid thought and more of a scene. 

Just a dream:  We never really write to one another anymore… we exist in different worlds.  Mine misses yours, knowing the small things you enjoy sometimes, knowing a movie or a book that isn’t aimed at changing us both so we can move on.  We replace everything with sadness and we don’t talk because it is too hard.  We decide as we sit next to the fish tank with the mermaid that we will never write about her, to write about her would be to set her free.  Neither one of us can raise out of our chair.  One of us lets the tears flow, one of us does not.  This changes from hour to hour.  The firelight changes our features; I see a small tear form in the corner of your eye.  It is the day you read my letter.  I told you I was going to let my heart be my own.  The wooden walls seem to come in on us with the illusion of such pliability that we attempt to push them away.  The force is too great though, and we have spent too much time sitting in our room denying what we once wrote and spoke of.  Denying what our eyes and our body language insists is still there.