I sleep; I dream still, what I once hoped was real, the dark
keeping secret these strokes of love, a solo performance on an otherwise empty
bed, my mind recalling the details of what inspires me thus, her long neck, I
pretend to kiss, her place face too bold to blush, her lips parted so I might
enter, here or there, top or bottom, back of front, her face framed before me even
as I douse the light and like there in personal delight, her shape like an open
pasture I might feed on all night, my hands pretending to be her hands as hot
on my anatomy as hot coals, my whole frame shuddering at the thought of a touch
I cannot possibly feel for real, a dream I dream when asleep, or at that moment
when all is contained, stroke after stroke, desperate to shake it all out of
me, to empty my soul into this imagined epitome, almost holy, all too brittle,
a mountain I mount the moment my eyes close, when she grows on me like a full
moon, and which I grab at with both hands, even sleep; I dream, I know it is
not real, and yet I feel as if it is, inside me.
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