June 21st

Summer solstice – the longest day of the year – so it is ironic that I had the dream again last night , with so little night to squeeze any sleeping, let alone dreaming in, she must have been determined to force herself on to me.

The dream starts as always, I am in a room, my age indeterminate, the furniture looks too large, but when I look down my hands are the hands of a middle aged woman.
There is a feeling of expectation, I am waiting for someone, confident that they will come, but anxious that I am somehow not ready, that I will miss them, will not be paying attention, that I will be caught napping. I must focus all my attention on the window and the door. Child-like, I swivel my head between the two and it is as my dream self fears, while concentrating on the door, or is it the window, she appears at the window or is it the door.
Immediately, I start to feel calm, everything will be alright now, I look into her face, my own face, for comfort and reassurance, stretching out my hands, I fall into her arms. Enveloped, I no longer know where I begin or she ends, it is the most perfect erotic moment, flesh on flesh, limbs wrapped together, two halved linked together to make the absolute whole.
Waking brings the usual despair, I reach out, unwilling to  admit the dream is over, like a lover left to wake alone, I pat the bed, hoping that she has simply moved out of reach,
Then, in that uneasy moment between wake & sleep, I sit bolt upright and give myself to abandonment, arms wrapped around my own knees, I rock and keen resembling nothing more or less than a child discovered in the back ward of a soviet block orphanage.
My own tears wake me fully, a salty shower of misery, the cycle is complete, the dream is over, but today something is different, shaking myself like a big sad old dog, I pad across to the mirror to anchor myself again in my every day incompleteness.  Staring, blearily eyed into the mirror, I experience a moment of complete dislocation the face looking back at me is not mine, but hers.
My mirror twin, exactly me, but not me, not me.
I act instinctively, violently pushing the mirror away from, glass smashing as it hits the wooden floor and stagger back to bed.
When I wake many hours later, I am surprised and confused to find my bedroom floor littered with shards of glass and an empty mirror frame balanced precariously, half on half off my old wooden dresser.

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