Dearest You,

I had a dream about you last night. You felt torn, your desire, our natural attraction combating your loyalty and propriety. You couldn’t understand how you could want so strongly to be with me, when the man you’re with now makes you so happy.

But you came to me in that dream, and that filled me with a completeness and happy satisfaction that I have not known in some time.

We would go together well, you and I, if only our plot would bend that way. We would connect, not like puzzle pieces, but like roots in soil, penetrating and gripping with countless tendrils the very substance of our souls.

I knew I was dreaming. Even the very best in life cannot be as pleasing as the sweetest dream—or so I suspect. I wake every morning with a hint of regret, hoping in the back of my mind that maybe this is the dream, and I’ll wake soon and you’ll still be there.

I plod along.