Hauntings.

I had a dream last night. I dreamed that the boy I love sat at a piano bench.
Lyrics and notes flowed off long fingers.
But just the fingers of one hand.
I had a dream last night that the other hand rested on a suit pant-clad leg. On top of that hand was another–another's. Smooth, painted purple fingernails adorned the feminine appendages. Curled around his. When I saw her face–it wasn't mine–I woke.

This morning I woke to a sagging face, a sluggish body, a welling despair. To eyelids crusted together by the serums of my body.
This morning I picked away the sleep, rubbing my eyes roughly. And the image of hands intertwined stamped on my brain.
The cavity in my chest pulsed erratically.

This afternoon I was rejected. Not by the boy I loved, but by the future I'd thought I had.
This afternoon I was rejected. Not by the boy I loved, but by expectations.

How many times had I heard it? 

You'll get in. You're good enough to get in. No–you better make it in. 

How many times had I heard it?

You'll get in. There is no other option. What does it say about you if you don't–no. There is no room for that possibility. 

Today I was rejected by life. Today I truly wished I didn't have to breathe and consume and think and breathe again and–live. 

I wished I could reject life. 

A curdled brain, an empty cave of a chest, shaking. What use was I? 

And I wished I could have had the dream instead.


Note: After receiving a tentative call from a friend asking if I was okay, I realized I should make clear that this never happened! I didn't have the dream and I haven't been rejected from college (...yet?). Heh. 

A Scene

           The hot tears on my face contrasted sharply with the icy glass melded with my forehead.

            I felt I could read their lips, even though they weren’t even moving. I love you. Good-bye. I’m sorry. A hint of a smile amidst the sorrow.

            The woman and the man parted slightly, gloved hands brushing, dark-haired heads kissing, dotted with flecks of weeping snow. Despite the puffy gear piled on slim bodies to block out the cold, the intimacy of their farewell could not be disguised–or rather, prevented.

            Perhaps the woman was leaving for a school far away to continue her studies–maybe the London School of Economics, or Vienna for culinary studies. Perhaps this was a bitter farewell, one forced by odds stacked upon odds, cruel circumstances, or perhaps this was a temporary good-bye, an understanding.

            She slipped onto the train, one hand wrapped around her luggage–burdens weighing her down in more ways than one–one hand shoved inside her pocket, preserving the touch of her loved one.

            But as I watched, drawing in a hitched breath, the woman turned to look at the tall man left standing on the platform, and the look on her face confirmed hope. 

           Someday. Aliquando. Un jour. Algún día. κάποια μέρα.