real eyes realize real lies

I had a dream the other night. I'm not sure if it was last night of the night before or if it was last week or last month of never. Maybe I dreamed it tomorrow. Maybe I'll dream it tonight. I refuse to forget it though.
(though to be honest, I'm sure it was last night)

That evening, we'd driven farther than we'd planned. We stopped late, ate chocolate bars and ice tea and some of that weird mexican stuff you found for dinner. You wanted me to play guitar more but I was too tired. We stopped at a hotel, but the hotel was my house. Though, not my house now... my house that I've always wanted. The one wear every square inch of my walls are covered, and the ceilings low, and there's a leaky faucet and I wouldn't trade it for the world, but concidering you're my world, I guess I would trade it. I crashed my keys onto the counter, and it was as though we'd just arrived home from our trip, rather than being in the middle of it all. One of those time lapses, you know? They're allowed to happen in dreams. I was just as exhausted. The bed was in the corner, white sheats and my yellow tank top (that i don't actually own). I slept on my stomach, both arms wrapped around my pillow. I shivered, being used to the hot and humid nights down south. You're better at travelling and coming home than I am. And you slowly untangled me from the sheets and pillows and wrapped me in your arms, squishing out the cold with the firey heat of your body against mine. And I slept. I slept. You stroked my damp hair -- how it became damp, I don't know -- with your callused fingers. I had nowhere to move, so I just layed my hands on your chest, since they had nowhere else to go. You literally crushed me to you, but there was no discomfort. You did it for you, not for me. Besides your breathing and mine, the heater clicked and the fridge rumbled lowly and the radio in the kitchen played a hit from the nineties. If you'd tried to sing me to sleep, I'm sure I would have just laughed - you can't sing. You try, and you're probably good, but I laugh anyway. It's just such a crazy thought. So you let the night sounds drift me. If I could have, I would have talked to you instead of slept. That's the irony in dreams - whatever happens, happens, and there's no controlling it. But the point is, I slept. Next thing I remember, I was back on my stomach, clutching to the pillow again. You hadn't left though -- not yet. You touched the back of my neck, warmth trailing through your fingertips. "Sash, are you awake? Sasha, I love you."
As if you'd said it so many times. So many times.

You can always trust your subconcious to bring everything back.