I had a dream about him last night.

Not the kind of dream where a distinct interaction is burned in my memory,

a pattern of fired nerve endings branded in my muscle fibers,

but the kind of dream I can’t seem to recall.

The kind of dream where I can feel his presence lingering the morning after,

like stale perfume clinging to my pjs, damp with alcoholic sweat, 

like a ghost following me around, draining me of energy—of stamina to seize the day and mingle 

with other bodies. For bodies aren’t people when your mind is somewhere else,

in a constant state of nostalgia perhaps. 

Except all these months later,

I find solace in the fact that this vision of him in my dreams is simply a fairytale.

I am mourning a person who doesn’t exist,

for he never existed how I wished him to.

I had a dream about a boy last night, 

the details are irrelevant.