I dreamed last night of a lost love, a heartbeat
in time with a spirit so bright I was blinded to the rest of the world. It was wild-eyed and pure, both of us sleepless and psychotic, stoned always, discussing Dylan, Voltaire, the nature of Tao. Calling my mom at 4 a.m. on half a bottle of cheap bourbon to describe the way she smoked her cigarettes, the oceans in her eyes.
It ended so abruptly, as travellers do, a kiss in the airport and I handed her my rosary for safekeeping. We were fascinated with each other, parting, vowing to meet again someday as the great Beats did and share stories. She stayed close to me, her spirit, as brief, intense friendships do. Her memory sealed in perfection, and I never fell out of love.
I dreamed she returned last night, I had shaved my head, and she had become vigilantly political. I presented her with a red vinyl box I'd created and we wandered the halls of a party, suddenly hating each other as women-friends are wont to do. I escaped finally to climb the ladders of a parking garage and look over the city, chaos in the streets, and I woke almost crying.
The purity of her memory had shattered, everything she represented to me had changed. One of the few souls in this world I held sacred, and in the course of a dream, she dissolved to confusion and hurt without warning. It angers me, the nature of change, that perfection can only exist in retrospect, and only for so long. Nothing gold can stay.