If I told you, would you believe me?

If I told you,  would you believe me?

I had this weird dream about you the other day, we were at a Greek restaurant, and we sat at the counter, and we ate silently, soundlessly, no exchange of words, no squeeze of hands, no expression of awe, as we often did, back in the day, when we were always in awe, of our state of existence, our togetherness, our synchronicity, and our affection for each other. When we finished our meal, at the counter, we got up, like two civilized acquaintances, an across between a colleague and a friend. As usual, you put on my coat, you were always the only one who put on my coat, not out of politeness, but out of instinctual adoration. I asked you, "Would I write about this? Would I remember this? Would you remember this? Is this how we part?" You forced a smile, and there were some genuine tears behind those glasses. I extended my left hand, trying to wipe those tears away, you grabbed it whilst it's in mid-air, and you said, "No, don't." Your hand that grabbed mine was firm, and the grip was so tight that it hurt me. I dropped my left hand, defeated and saddened by your refusal.

We were leaving for the train. More accurately, you were leaving for the train. I was simply following you. You had a train to catch and you were late for it. "Would I see you again?  Would I be held by you again?" I buried these thoughts as I chased after you, while your hastened steps imprinting the white snow. You did not like being late. I was always the late one.

Acela Express, 3.5 hours from New York to Boston. I saw a bit of a gray hair, as you put on your hat.

"Is this how we part?" I asked again.

You squeezed my hand, as you always did, and you said, "bye, sweetie" and stepped onto the train.

How far north must one travel to see the northern lights? I always liked the northern lights. I had another vision many months ago, and I wrote about how we would grow old together, watching the northern lights after an early supper.

"I’m finally gray, and you are finally frail, we are not saying anything; we need not say anything. Footprints are slowly forming on the snow-covered walk. You know I have always loved you. And this is the end of the road." I wrote that once. It was my declaration of love to you. Though I've never told you so.

You'd soon turn 50. I had prepared a speech before the meal, before you put on my coat and before you stepped onto the train, and I had wanted to tell you - "Perhaps it's finally time for us to go away for a weekend. It would be nice. Just the two of us, without anyone else." I never got a chance to ask that question. The air was cold and the mood was somber.  The end was near and it was not the one I had hoped for.

When I woke up from it, I stared at the ceiling for a long while and I wondered what I'd do if you existed, what if you were not just a figment of my imagination, does epic love exist, would we ever go to a Greek restaurant and eat at the counter?

If you did exist, and if I did tell you this story, would you believe me?