Coruscate.

I dreamed last night that you were lying on your back, knees bent and fingers laced behind your curly hair as though you were doing sit-ups. You weren't doing sit-ups, of course, just relaxing on the carpet, I think. Counting stars on the ceiling perhaps. Lost in your unfathomable thoughts for sure. I walked across the room and settled astride you, leaning back against wall of your thighs, and we talked for some time like we used to talk about everything and nothing so easy and free. In a quiet moment I leaned forward and kissed you, and I kissed you until I almost remembered what it was like to be with you, until I almost remembered how it felt to have you inside me, beside me, under, on, and through me. In my dream I was watching us from above, and as I saw myself lifting the hem of your t-shirt while sliding both hands along your torso from waist to shoulder, I caught a glimpse of your pale stomach and woke up.

I woke up, helplessly reminded of the day we stood at the foot of our bed, with your hands on my face and you kissed me so hard the nervous energy that had been building all morning, all week, all month and winter melted away like I melted in your arms. And just as you slid the flat of your palm against the bare skin of the small of my back there was a knock at the door. The maid bearing my bucket of ice. I'd like to think since then I'd be able to pick you out in a crowd no matter how much time has passed, pick yours out from a thousand knees and hips and freckles. From countless calluses and scars. Your hands would be the hands I'd look for first, because God, I love your hands, and this is how I love you still, six of seven deadly sins and only one virtue with which to save myself, too proud not to be angry, too generous not to give you everything I’ve no right to give. Broken on the wheel, smothered in fire and brimstone, this is how badly I want you.

One dream and I'm back where I started.