Two Hundred and Twelve

I’m having dreams again.  Strange dreams.  Not like the ones I used to have, more real than waking life.

They’re about her, of course.

In these new dreams I am who I am, for a change, living as I live.  But I live with a beast, some monster out of Lovecraft.  It looks hideous, but I love it because I know that beneath that hideous exterior it’s her.

She was the world to me.  Now she’s dead, and the world is hideous.  Perhaps it always was, but not to me because of her.  Now it is, but I still love it because of her.