Him

I had a dream. We were discussing what might have been rain or shine. I think he was dressed in white, with brown eyes and black hair scented with ebony. But how do I know if what I'm describing is part of a memory, a fantasy, or the reality of a passing cloud?

I sensed he wanted to kiss me, and my mute lips moved to his words. His breath diffused the syntax of desire. My eyes were already searching the arch of his eyelids.

My body in my sheets must have gone berserk, pleasantly shocked at what was happening to it because I woke up for a few seconds. I urged myself to close my eyes again, to stop thinking about my life.

The dream continued with the warmth you'd expect. There's no more beautiful feeling than being enveloped by a foreign soul, no hotter feeling than the caress you place on the back, loins, genders, and obstacles of a living being so close, almost fused with you.

There is none more silent than love in manifesting itself, greater hope than the present floured with opium and sweat.

It surely lasted a fraction of a second, this eternity of the senses, and then the March hours fell back on me.

Still, I was happy when I got up. A magician had passed by, born of an unconscious prude, keeping the shadows of my vitality to himself. I may have experienced these torrents of lava in another life. I have little trace of them in this one as if I'd consumed all I was allowed before moving on.

It seems that it's possible to daydream, to remain fully lucid, and to discover the solution to all mysteries. I pray then that I'll live forever among the tangles of my dreams. Perhaps I'll find the eternity I need to continue my pleasant path.