Dreaming You

She comes in the night. She stands at my window, the one closest to my head, tapping her finger to wake me up. There’s no need; I’ve been awake since she woke up in her bed calling my name. I feign sleep when she comes, though. It’s more fun for both of us, it completes the old, overdone scene.

I don’t remember who slides the window up, but that’s all right. It helps me imagine that it slides up all by itself. That compliments both of us more than any mere personal action. As she climbs through, my hands helping and guiding her slim, graceful body, the moon bathes her in a light so glorious that my heart STOPS, and for hours I am trapped in that second.

I dream.

I dream again. And then,

she slides in beside me and my dreams feel so small next to the great warm light that stares at me from those deep wells that communicate to me all the beauty they have perceived without using those sublime lips, without using those delicate lungs for even the slightest exhalation. The breeze and the crickets play slow waltzes for the stars dancing in the distant past. Warmth and familiarity allow me to know exactly what her form and figure look like without ever moving my gaze from those eyes (those eyes, those eyes… those eyes!).

“I dreamt of you,” she says finally, with a smile so perfect it looks sharp, almost convincing you that those lips would cut you if you tried to kiss them. They still make me afraid, even though I know how soft they are, which is why, I think, I still hesitate. “You were falling, miles and miles, and I was even further from you. I’m not sure I saw your face, but I knew it was you, somehow. And just as I thought I would never reach you, I was right there with you, catching you, holding you. You fell so lightly into my arms, like a feather, you little bird.” And here she brushes a strand of hair out of my eyes.

I know all this. I could finish her story for her. But I fear more than anything that I’d ruin this divine moment, so I only smile in bliss that I can feel her fingers like orchid petals on my face so clearly. She continues. “For a while, I thought I was comforting you, but soon you were talking to me, telling me that everything around us is perfect and beautiful and all I had to do was open my eyes.”

I could say anything at all. I could tell her I love here, that I always will. I could tell her I’m sick, crazy, wild, stupid, explain all my hurts and pleasures in my simple life, and beg for her enlightenment. I could (should) ask her her name. But I stick to my lines.

“But you’re always the one who has to tell me that,” I say. I fell so stupid saying it, but she smiles, and that’s all I’m trying for, anyway.

She pulls her head into her shoulders slightly, playfully, her smile firmly, persistently there. When she opens her eyes, she whispers, “kiss me.”

I hesitate.

Then I reach my head forward. It’s indescribable, the kiss. All words fail to fully describe the complex beauty of this simplicity. It transcends paradise.

After, she sits upright and looks out the window. “The stars are beautiful,” she says. “I want to dance with them.” And in one fluid movement, she moves herself back out the window, arms outstretched, looking up. As I sit up to look at her, she turns around, her eyes burning at me, and that smile…

“Come with me,” she says, extending her arms and open hands toward me. As soon as I take her hands in my own, she begins to float. She goes higher and higher, and my grip slips so I don’t even get out the window. I’m left leaning out the window, looking up as she floats higher and higher, blending into the sky and becoming a star.

I wake up sweaty, erect, lonely. Every time. I guess I’ll masturbate.