Helena Sharpe

I fell in love in a dream last night.

It felt like a hot liquid that surged through my whole body, almost painful. And like I was weightless. What I would imagine it would feel like in zero gravity. Or deep under the sea, surrounded by the brightest colors imaginable, and my own self melted into those colors.

Romance, yes. The whole world was romance. Everything velvet, the air on my skin the first evening of summer, filling my lungs with an achingly beautiful song.

Waking, like returning to a world of black and white. Like falling asleep, rather than waking up. The dulling of senses, the drowning out of songs. There is no romance now, but I can remember it. Sometimes I think I can hear snatches of the music. And I hope for it.

I have a bundle of lavender. I close my eyes and breathe the scent. It saturates into a place behind my eyes and creates a world of color and I fall in love again, just for a second. Then it is gone. And “reality,” in contrast, is grating.