I dream a lot. Not about ambition, nor aspiration. Cause I know those will happen. I am destined for great things (before I participate in another self-engrossed spill);
But about love.
Last night I dreamt I kissed him, again. His lips, as I recall, weren't wet - as eager lips often are. They were dry, almost powdery but with enough of a moistness to warrant eagerness, kindness, promises of goodness, endless goodness.
They tingle on my lips still.
It felt like chain-smoking menthol cigarettes, without the hurt, the chest-heaves (only of desire), the breathlessness, deep breathlessness (that which can only be filled with a great inhalation of him), the panic attacks (be calm, my beating heart), the comfort of the long stick between fingers, the swirls of smoke molesting my lips, staining my clothes, hanging on under nostrils, forever the trace of you, leaving its grace to be remembered, hung-onto for at least 48 hours after.
I'm off to bed now. Maybe he'll really love me when we wake up.
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