I rode my bike to meet you. Soon after I left, I felt a surge of subtle emotion, much akin to the cool breeze surrounding me. It was like a nervous chill, anticipation; I had only felt it before in myriad dreams in which I met you.

I saw you approaching me from a distance of about 40 feet. You are smaller than I imagined you: larger than life. Your clothes are tired and flowing, your stature composed yet vulnerable, and your form waifish. You look like sleep.

We embrace. You smile gently and modestly. Your hug is broad, but etherial. It is like a cool blanket in the winter. You are much smaller than your self-conscious complaints of your body would have ever lead me to believe.

We walk. Your voice is deeper than I expected; phone microphones eliminate lower frequencies of voice for the sake of clarifying consonants. Something is lost in this; like the warmth of an old, warped record.

We converse. You are certainly Charlotte.

You smell musky; stale and sour, like a drawn out memory that wants to be a long forgotten dream. It is like an old book, which still brings new readers content. It is childen's clay from my childhood; love in expressive creation. It is organic, like vinegar or spent, dry earth. It is something I can still smell on me as I write this, on your metal cuff. It is fading, and I know I won't smell it again for a very long time.

You are so gentle and slow; and I think that you probably know this. You are patient, you are precious.

You are unaware of things around you. Details and specific memories tested sometimes escape you. You speak of yourself and your emotional development over many years, some grand master plan to end all suffering, to make everyone happy. You speak of philanthropic ideals, but around my friends, are sometimes much too shy to enact them obviously.

You are a ghost, you are haunting my life today. But this does not feel peculiar; you have been in mind for years. You were once a role model of mine, some unattainable, perfect state of being. I did not understand either of us then. I don't now, either, but perhaps I have a better grip on things.

When I spoke to you then, it was like praying to some carven idol which only repeated what I couldn't admit to myself.

When I speak to you today, it is like interacting with a god I abandoned long ago. It is like holding your hand and repaying you for all the things you did to comfort me before.

It is like crying to myself, and laying on my back at the sky. Everything will be fine. There is nothing on my mind but the stars' solitude. You are quiet on the drive home, and you see a meteor. All except for you, the world is asleep.

A hug goodbye. It is like a hug from a ghost; I wonder if I will ever see you again. An embrace like in all the dreams I remembered before we met. Dreams in which, I was so alone, and you were there to help me.

Or like a dream long ago. You were somewhere, alone, we were both unfamiliar with the situation. You cried, I could do nothing to help you because I was too lost and childish myself. But eventually, you felt better. You weren't happy, but you could open your eyes.

And, you were a person so gentle that I could see myself when lost in your voice. And, I could feel tired, unearthly amusement in your aura when lost in my own voice.

Today was everything I could ever have hoped it to be.