When I Sleep I Dream, Dream That I'm Awake. Or Was It, When I'm Awake, I Dream That I'm Asleep?

I had dreams. No, not dreams; fantasies would be a better description.

Thoughts of secret meetings, behind-the-back affections, hush-hush words spoken so low that they weren't really spoken, but instead thought, and taken into account with a glance.

That's where most of this started: eyes.

You have such a deceiving pair. You shouldn't be allowed to use them in the ways that you do; it's criminal.

I remember sitting outside, having that talk that night. And yet still you stand by your original defense. It seems ludicrous to me, that you could POSSIBLY try to defend yourself in that way, when we had a conversation like that. Everything felt so right.

And yet it was all obviously so wrong. Those movements, grazings of the hand, glossed lips and meaningful stares; all of it was so wrong, and I was a fool not to take it for what it was: a blatant lie.

I suppose I thought I could be different; you couldn't possibly do what you'd done to so many others, to me. We'd known each other two long, you cared for me too much to treat me like that.

But again, so obviously wrong.

I wish I could make you forget some of the things I said to you. You didn't and don't deserve to have heard them, to know them. I sang for you, and I don't think you understand just how closley I hold that to my heart in that kind of a situation.

And you never will.

Yet here I am, still writing about you, after all this time. Still going over it in my head, wondering what I did wrong, where I made the mistake, even though I know it was you all along, no matter the mistakes I made, and how fast I moved; it was destined to be this way, all along.

Still writing about you, months after the fact. I hope you feel important.