Dream

He woke up with a start.

Soft hands had been caressing his cheeks, softer kisses pressed between his brows. He remembered this scene, with hair falling all over him like a curtain shielding him away from the outside world, the scent of something light and citrus in the air. It never made sense but at the same time it did; of course all things golden would be hers.

Golden and Soft, he learned those words associating it with her.

He woke up to white, but white had always been there.
It was never dark when he closed his eyes, not with her in mind. There was white in gold, like there was light in her, no. She was the light. He knew not of the difference between day and night because she was always around. The light never went out, to him. Behind his shut lids, he saw more than the Sun could have offered. She was a universe of stars unconstrained in the abyss of phosphenes his vision saw endless of, shining brighter than any white light and burned into sparks he saw even with eyes open. 

Imprinted into his mind, he had asked once, pointing to a wall, what the oddities of coloured dots and frazzled static he saw were, but there was nothing wrong with his eyes; they just looked at the world with love too overflowing for electrons and nerves to contain. 

Golden, Soft, A Universe. White would not be white if it did not have the colours of the rainbow all dripping into a flow of light, but she could never be white. Not when she was so much more than a combination of artistic equations, there was not a solution to her and yet she was the answer to him.

Why does the world spin, why does time tick, why don't the flowers bend for your every step, why does the Sun exist when you already do?

He woke up to everything and nothing at once.
Soft hands and softer kisses were all he could ask for, hidden behind the sickening want of tight breaths and sucked air. Punch him, he would dare the drunken men passing by on lightless nights. Maybe if he bleeds all the black from his soul, he could finally be forgiven.

Momma, he asks, beaten and bloody on the ground, grinning up to the empty sky. Am I good enough now? 

He wakes up with last night's wounds patched and the taste of ash in his mouth, again. The pathetic attempt at covering each of his wounds makes him smile every time. Stupid, don't you know that band-aids never stop the bleeding? Closing his eyes, he goes back to sleep, wishing for the dream to end.