As I lay in the dark, scanning the vast barrenness of my bed I run my hand over the empty landscape where he would sleep.  Who is he? I don’t know.  Last night as I dreamt he was a celebrity I had seen in an interview earlier that day. That wasn’t really who it was of course.  Really he was just one of the muddy puddles in my memory, a puddle that used to be an ocean of love, joy and ultimately sorrow.  He was the puddle I still occasionally dip my finger in, swirling it furiously trying to create a storm, a wave, something.  Of course it never yields the desired results and as the puddle slowly dries up I lose interest.

I am filled with sadness and disappointment as I permit this dream man to lie in my bed and hold me.  This is not what I want and I know it, even deep in slumber I know he isn’t the one who can change the landscape of my bed.  As my eyes flutter open and my mind drifts back into conscious awareness, I am relieved and disappointed to find that the empty space in my bed has not been occupied.

When I can’t bear thinking about it anymore I roll to my other side and stare at the other silhouettes in the dark room.  The furniture is just a collection of shapes in the quiet, lightless room. This room feels foreign even in the light.  It isn’t really my room.  I haven’t built my room, my bed, not yet. I assemble my room and space in my head.  I begin my plan to rebuild.  Things are falling back into place.  Everything is nearly reassembled.

I am ready to begin again, out on my own.  I become excited at the prospect of having opportunities to date, socialize and entertain.  I smile in the dark. I drift back to sleep full of hope and optimism.  I am ready.  I am excited.