VISITING HOURS

 

 

I dreamt about you again last night.  It was one of many I’ve had since that evening you impulsively dropped your guard and let me see inside your soul.  Did you think I had forgotten? 

How can I when your nocturnal visits have become habitual?  Rarely do I close my eyes and sink into dreamless black sleep.  Instead you hover nearby and grow bolder with every appearance.

I thought the first dream was a fluke, a crazy patchwork of people clamoring for the attention that you paid only to me.  They stood in disarray, unable to break the orbit that we spun.  And I wondered, even as it unfolded before me, why you had so quickly assumed a role in my subconscious.

Or why, with each subsequent dream, you move ever closer.  From across the room to my side…  from standing motionless behind me to holding me, as you did last night, like a prisoner in your arms.  Not that I wanted to escape, I wanted to relish the confinement and remember every detail of how we fit together.

As if from habit, you stood so close that I could feel your breath against my neck and your lips against mine.   But you never said a word.  There’s no need to speak because I know exactly what you’re thinking and what you want.  You have become transparent to me.

It’s curious that at night, when all is quiet and freed from constraint, you grant yourself leave to indulge. And you can’t get enough, can you?  You are like a man starving for the connection that only the muse can provide.

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