One Last October Night's Dream

Dear C,
I dreamt of you the other night.
It was a misty afternoon in some far away airport where I lived. you came through the gates, our eyes met, your face lightened up with a grin and I, I flew in the thin Autumn air and I flung myself into your arms. You were too tall, taller than I had recalled, you lifted me up, spinning fast, and there was nothing wrong with the world.
You only stayed for a day, and I had to leave early on the morning before you left. My grandmama said goodbye to you for me, and that evening, I received a letter from J. she said you'd returned safely. You'd flown ten thousand miles that fast. And you'd told J about my grandmother, and about the apple trees outside my window, and about the smell of freshly washed sheets, and about the locks of my hair.

Dear J.
I dreamt of you last night.
It was our reunion. We hugged tightly. You smelled of lavender, of wild mint, of curly fries freshly out of the pan, you smelled of tired late-night walks on the sidewalks of Bree street, you smelled of laughter, of mischief, of seagulls flying above, of memory. Oh how pleasantly you smelled of memory.
The next morning as I, half awake half asleep, made my way to the bathroom, I opened an old, treasured bottle of perfume. It was an accident, surely.
The whole room suddenly smelled like you, it smelled of lavenders, of fresh mint, of curly fries, of Bree street at night, of laughter, of memory; it all smelled of you. and I put it on, my eyes closed. and suddenly I, wholly, smelled of you. It must've been an accident, surely.
dearest J.