There she comes again. Brighter than light, softer than a dream, when dreams are soft and tender.
Reality was once well defined. We were together then, sharing a home. That home was cold for others, but not for us. We didn’t invite people often. Our love was the main heating machine, which kept us warm enough but that wasn’t obvious to the occasional guests who shivered, rubbing their hands to warm up. In my dreams we had a fireplace. I went out, collecting wood while she’d light the fire and we’d sit silently on the sofa staring at the movie, then at each other’s eyes, then back at the movie, until we’d fall asleep in each other’s arms. Colorful images jumped inside my mind in dreams, random snapshots of a film yet unborn, all ending abruptly once I opened my eyes.
There she comes again. Her kisses sweet like sugar. On these sandy fields, we dance barefoot, immersed in joy.
It all began when I was fired. Our love jumped out the window, instead of saving us. The room was colder and colder, until she couldn’t bear the coldness. She left in search of a warmer climate. She threw me away like an worn-out sweater, like an apple she had once craved. She ate me whole, then spat the core of me. Like I was a power strip, only I’m now unplugged and useless. We exchanged love letters and desperate texts for long, only it felt like talking to a ghost, or like phantom limb pain. I kept lifeless dolls in the room, hoping magic would come back to breathe life into them. What if magic came and found nothing to animate? And magic came along, it always does, and found me soulless, but I danced with the dolls for a while, who served as substitutes of our love, a quick fix to soothe the pain. I’ve noticed before: being out of my comfort zone felt like I was in a movie or a dream. Only the comfort zone vanished and I’m now trapped in the movie my mind made up.
There she goes again. Waving goodbye. Leaving me alone under the burning sun.
In my dreams I’m still with her. In my dreams, I have followed her to warm lands, where our love is fed by an everlasting summer. The heat saves our love for a while. Until she leaves me again in search of unknown places. She disappears into the jungle, turning into a wild animal, while I stand there, burnt by the sun, eaten alive by wild beasts, and the dream turns into a nightmare I can’t escape from.
Thus we became legendary. Two legendary pink dots starring in poems valued by people with the strange habit of attending imaginary funerals. We starred in movies and songs and stories about dysfunctional psychological patterns, disguised as romance and true love and passion, pointless rantings or passionate dreams of never-ending love, dreams of the killing kind, bullets in disguise.
I try to wake up, yet I’m so weary, that not even a nightmare could awaken me. Into oblivion I am now buried with her. Yet again, I can’t think of a more tender way to die.
Mileva Anastasiadou is a neurologist. Her work can be found in many journals, such as the Molotov Cocktail, Jellyfish Review, the Sunlight Press (Best Small Fictions 2019 nominee), Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, Ellipsis Zine, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Bending Genres, Eastern Iowa Review (Best of Net 2019 nominee), Litro, Moon Park Review and others.