I did not dream of her, that last and vivid dream before morning
brings consciousness, stark as sunlight, and yet edged with the lingering mists
dreams always contain.
I did not dream of her, although I could have, recalling a
place we both shared for a time, a bank that was not a bank when we inhabited
it, and has since ceased being what we shared after we abandoned it.
The dream thick with the remembrance of those final days,
hers, and later mine, as we closed the door on that place, and recall the
people who shared that space with us, heavy with regret, and wishes things
might have gone better, and now, this late in the day, too late to do anything
but look back, my character sponging off free giveaways of food banks used to
give when I was a kid, then shifting out on the streets – where the water tower
stands – and some maniac driving a Datzun B210 backwards off the pier into the
river, desperate to be rid of that rattling piece of junk, with me, bearing
witness to the end of us, watching him ride off (with a girl who might be her)
into the sunset, while I fumbled with my camera phone, unable to take a picture,
aching to find a face beyond the glare of the windshield, later, waking,
believing it was her, gone, but not gone.
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