creative bit: dreams

He didn't speak.  He couldn't.  He knew that if he did, she would wake.  And he didn't want that; he didn't know what he wanted.  So he watched her sleep, watched her breath rise and fall, watched the scenes of her dreams unfold.  He let her imagination take him captive, her dreams became his.  He lingered there, in the space they shared, watched his character act out his role in the life of her's. 

Realization brought him back.  He was back in that room with the sunlight beginning to pour in through the window.  She was asleep; he was awake.  And he didn't know what he wanted. 

He turned away from her and began studying the aging wood that made up the window frame, and thinking.  What would life look like with her in it?  Was he even capable of including another character in it?  Could he be faithful?  What was love?  How many children did he want?  The answers came as a flood, not as particular answers to particular questions but as one big answer to an even bigger, all-encompassing question.  Beautiful; yes; she was the only one he wanted; work; four. 

He knew what he wanted.  He was more sure of it than anything in his whole life.  He turned back to her, the words nearly dripping from his mouth.  They died on his lips.  She was gone; slipped away.  Her spot was still warm, for she had just been there.  But there was no sign of her.  She was gone - for good this time.

He had waited too long.




**This was not intentionally depressing. My apologies.