I dreamt about you last night. Though you've remained dancing on the fringes of my mind, I hadn't actively let myself think of you, let alone let you creep into my dreams. I haven't picked up a pen in a month, scared of where my thoughts would lead and therefore the words I'd write. Because I can only write about that which I know. That which I feel. So instead I have only read books. Nora Roberts, Caroline Mortimer and Laura Kinsale. And if I happen to read a line that jumps out of the page and stabs me in the heart then I can smile wistfully and keep reading. Keep forging ahead. Gambare, right?

But today I had a dream. And it was a nightmare. We were in a casino playing blackjack with a couple of your friends. I didn't have any heart - and when your friend let slip that you'd married in the years I haven't seen you and had given life to another, that became literal. For the band aids that have kept my heart together couldn't take anymore and they gave way under that one final assault. And all those pieces that used to make up my heart, crushed and ground into fine dust. In my next breath, they flew way leaving behind an almost empty chest cavity - with only a muscular organ which was still pumping blood to my body parts. Keeping me still in existence if not alive. Extending my torture. 

But then I smiled. And won at blackjack. And then I woke up in my own bed.

I haven't dreamt of you in a long while. 

I haven't even let myself think of you. 

And now I remember why. 

You're the only one who has enough of me to break my heart. 

Even in dreams. 

J.