Restless

It is 2:11. Moments ago, I was rudely awakened by co-conspirators: heat and nightmares. I got out of bed, turned off the heater, and removed my socks. Now, I am lying here, chilled and unsettled. "It was only a dream." I remind myself, and of course, I am right. It was only a dream. There is no cause for alarm, and it strikes me. It's not the terrifying dream that has me in a frightened state; it is the realization that I cannot call you for reassurance. You will never say to me "it was only a dream" again. You will never calm me again. You will never be my tether back to reality again. You will never coax me from my mind again. I cannot reach for you first and immediately again. It is 2:30. I am writing a poem you will never read. As exposed as I am when I write honestly, in this moment I am not as vulnerable as I'd like to be. If I were truly brave, I would call you right now and tell you about the heat and nightmares that woke me. You would discern my obvious and subtle meanings. Because you know me so well, you would know that I neither want to be prideful nor brave, and you would allow me to just be honest about the heat and nightmares and my fears of losing you. It is 2:41. Maybe just knowing this will be enough. Maybe.