He had not visited my dreams for what felt like an age, but this time, he did.
As if a figure from a cherished picture coming out of the frame, he stood before me like a mirror to the year 2023—two years ago—back to the time he wore his newly bought vertical blue-and-white striped shirt to ask my opinion of, and the way I swooned for his captivating good looks answered it all.
And there he was again.
Same shirt.
Same face.
Right before my eyes.
All at once, I was overcome with bliss. But in this joy was an underlying dread—a fear that he was to slip through my fingers before I could hold him in my arms, even when, in the back of my mind, I knew it wasn’t real. My plea to keep him with me, so strong and intense, gave me the power to hold the reins and bend the laws of that universe. With a mere thought, I transposed us to a secluded place, one softened by intimacy and veiled in shadow, so I could be with him without interruption, so I could embrace him with passion.
And embrace him I did.
There, I touched him.
No—devoured him.
I clung to him like a prisoner to sunlight. Though he tasted like the decay of an expired tomorrow and the bitterness of today, my tongue, ravenous and unforgiving, only swallowed the nostalgia and sweetness of yesterday. It wasn’t love. It was madness. A greed born from the hunger of a soul long famished of affection.
He kissed me back.
Of course he did.
Because dreams are liars, aren’t they? They hand you the body you’ve buried and say, go ahead, darling—dig it up. Touch it. Pretend it still loves you.
And like the starvation of a damsel locked away from her prince, I did anyway—with desperate intention and longing, as if my kisses to his ghost would tear the veil and bite his lips on the other side of the world.