And the truth is,

Things aren't going as well as I thought they were.

I keep having this dream, where I can see your face through a cloud of cigarette smoke. And my arms are reaching, reaching, reaching, and my hands are falling, falling, falling, too short every time. And each time I grasp, the air I come back with is farther from you; and if only my arms were long enough, if only I could push through this crowd, I could get to you. But you don't even see me.

And then in an instant, you're gone, and I'm left empty hearted and empty handed. And then I realize it was all a mirage. And you were never really there at all.