I awoke this morning on the right side of the bed feeling wrong.  In my dream, you made plans with your friends to go to Pink Elephant, even though you knew I’d spent the day collecting your favorite ingredients.  I’d be cooking dinner.  When I confronted you, you told me to deal and not be as selfish.  You twisted things and left me wondering if I’d done something wrong.  You were ordering life for one instead of two, without apology. 

When I awoke, I wanted to punish you.  “But it’s only a dream; I didn’t do anything.”  I knew it wasn’t just a dream.  Something in our life is bothering me and working its way out in my sleep.  It happens when I drink, too.  The irrational bubbles to the surface when my good sense numbs out.  I forget how you sacrifice and spend your time thinking of how you can improve my life.  I remember when you take time for yourself; I cling to the negative space between us, and somehow believe that’s what I should be looking at.  Not the sculpture and shape of us, but what’s missing, what you’re not doing enough of.  I will then ignore you, deleting your numbers from my phone, because when we’re missing, people look for us.  It’s my way of manipulating affection, drawing it out of you, instead of being kind and understanding and having faith that it will come again, without my having to do anything. 

“But it was just a dream sweetheart; I’d never do that.”
“Yeah, but I dreamt it for a reason.  I must suspect or worry that you will behave that way, and my worrying about that is the problem here.”  When I said, “here,” I should have meant, “with me.”  I am tired of twisting things and leaving you to wonder if you’ve done something wrong.