I dreamt about you. And it's hard to tell if it was punishment or encouragement. The smell of your skin, the way my cheek felt against your chest, the grumbling vibration your voice made that soothed me like the sounds a baby hears in the womb felt like home and gunpoint robbery at the same time. The lull of your breathing, like the tempestuous swells of the ocean, always had the air of warning... as if to whisper caution to the jagged edges of the cliff, "Brace for my impact, I will collide into you like the thundrous wrath of a god. I will shape you into the way I need you to take me." I felt the brush of your lips... weathered by scorn and hot with fevered lamentations of experience you never asked for. I felt the brush of your hair, untamed as your condition to societal expectation. I felt you.
And now I have to try to forget again.
But I will tell you, when I did dream, when I did feel you... it was rapturous. It was euphoric.
I smiled before I cried.
