I am never going to see her again

The leaves wither and fall. The sun fades. The snow melts and turns into annoying, slippery, icy patches. Winter turns into spring. And I am revisited by the same dream.
The haze of colours, unknown people. A house I have never seen before, but I know for sure that I have been there, even lived there. The same staircase, the high ceiling, the painting by the landing. The mosaic stone floor, the french windows, those faceless people. Mere bodies, shuffling. What are their names?
So many images. Crowded streets, umbrellas, traffic noises. The house. A feeling that this was somebody's home once.
And yet again, one sinking feeling keeps coming back to me. Every time I make yet another new acquaintance, every time I discover yet another face to politely smile at. I remember. That one person who I would rather see than any one else in the world.
My dreams are not haunted. They are invaded by unwanted feelings and images, unknown and foreign to me, yet achingly familiar. Through all the confusing images, one face stands out clear, flitting in and out among the other unknown ones. I know that face. I find it stunningly beautiful. 
In my dreams I approach the person with that face. I enfold her in a soft embrace as if, if I hug her too tightly, she might break; the image of her clear face may flicker and die out. I refuse to let go of her, desperately postponing the inevitable and telling myself, 'five more minutes, five more minutes', as I keep clutching her shoulders, my nose buried in the nape of her neck where her curly hair tickles her skin. I can smell her. I can feel her. And for once, she doesn't feel like a dream. For once, she feels real. And then I watch helplessly as she is prised away from my cold, dead fingers and she walks into the elevator that will take her away from me.


I am never going to see her again.