I have been told that dreams arise from our subconscious mind. That the portrait we so fervently rest our eyes upon during our sleep reflects a portion of what we do not know.  What we can’t grasp a hold of or understand. A subconscious mind that calls out for us with cold hands. With warm hands. With familiar words and recognizable faces. It’s a threshold of a secret space we desperately want to be a part of.

With the help of our dreams, we can explain everything that we, while awake, have never been able to identify with. To understand. Or, it could be on the contrary. It could be that the moments we spend swiftly travelling through familiar fragments and patterns represents us. Who we are. It could be that they might be everything we actually do know. They might even be the only things we know. The truth. I don’t really know anymore. I’ve been having trouble separating what’s real and not lately.

We’re back at the viewing point again. The sun is beginning to settle again. She still smells like gasoline. And I still don’t have a clue where we are. Where I am. And why we are here. This time nothing is holding us back. Nothing is stopping us. Nothing is ruining our moment. Not a single sound. You could hear a pin drop. You could hear everything you’d ever want to hear. Or don’t want to hear. You can hear everything. But all I hear is silence.

I’m thinking that I should be hearing the warm summer breeze sluggishly caressing my ear. I’m thinking that I should be hearing her chest rise and fall with the rhythm or her pounding heart. Or my pounding heart. I can feel them. A pulsation beating against my back. Another one hammering inside my chest. But I’m not hearing it. I’m thinking. Thinking about every possible sound I should be able to hear. But all I feel is calmness. And all I hear is this. This vibrant sound of stillness.

Her arms are still covering my stomach. Her skin still shielding mine. Her hands still reassuring me. Her breath still helping me respire. Her warmth still melting my barriers. My scent still softening her edges. My shoulders still holding the weight she’s been carrying. The world she eventually couldn’t hold in place. I’m hers to lean on to. She’s mine to lean back on.