dreamlover
Last night I dreamt that you came home.
You stood there at my door and I was so happy, indescribably happy, and yet I finally felt the full weight of the sadness that I had been resisting for too long, and I couldn’t help but squeeze you, hard, and cry and cry.
And you held me, but you made me look at you and told me that you were back now, stop being sad.
I laughed through my tears at your simplicity. It’s one of the things I can’t help but love about you.
I think it was then that we felt the nearness of our bodies. And without any appropriate transition or stated intent or anything that people say is normal, my legs were wrapped around your waist and you were kissing me as if it was the last time I would let you.
You carried me into the livingroom (the extra five feet to my bedroom was too far) and our clothes seemed to magically come off. You never stopped touching me and it seemed to me that the sensation of your skin against mine was integral to my sustained existence.
My fingers raking your mass of curls, gripping your strong shoulders, noticing your new freckles among the old ones, the defined shape of your long, gently furry legs entwined in mine—I think it was the best dream sex I’ve ever had.
And you are real.
My stomach is turning inside out at the thought of your return in a week.
