Sandstorm

In my dream there's wind and sand and the dry air sticks to the roof of my mouth.  I'm looking, searching despratly and silently for something I dread finding.  He's here, I know- this place is haunted by sweat and piercing blue eyes.  Row upon row of cooridor walls and every step is one closer to inevitable heartbreak. 
When I find him it's unsurprising, there is the farmiliar faded brown shirt and dirty blond hair cropped close.  And that's when everything goes grey.  No breath, no tears, nothing at all except for the words I've been failing to say for years.
In my dream it's too late, it's always too late.