Sometimes I see him on the street. The curve of a man’s chin, the way the light hits his hair. I find him in fragments. Today he was holding the hand of a girl with green eyes and when his face turned toward me, my blood ran cold as a mountain stream. I cried right there on the street.
Just when I think the dreams have stopped, another arrives uninvited. The dreams are never dramatic; they are bookends to another story. I see him, I approach. We chat politely. My heart thumps hard in my chest, but his eyes are distant as though searching the crowd. He is only half there. We part ways and the dream goes on, but through it all, my heart is heavy. In the end, I look for him and he is gone.