Sensitivity, sensitivity

I dreamed of you last night.  It was the first time in a quite awhile that you have interrupted my sleep.  You appeared backstage before a play, and so, to my embarrassment, I was dressed in a costume.  Queen of Hearts, maybe, or Queen Aggravain, the point being that I was dressed as someone who is arrogant and self-important, but is seen by others as foolish and ridiculous.  The dress was large and fluffy and I was heavily made-up, wearing a tangled wig and exaggerated everything.

And you were dressed as a grown up, a man in a suit or some kind of simple and sleek business attire that indicated you actually were important rather than just trying to appear to be.  You did not look the way I remember you, you did not look like the person I miss.  And yet seeing you made me ache.  You said you could not stay but that you would be back to watch the play tomorrow, and I asked you not to, which was what I always used to say to boys who thought they were supposed to see my plays to indicate they were supportive.  And you said you wanted to, which was what those boys always said, and I knew you would not be back.

And I still miss you.




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