The dream is always the same.

It is always about reach, about skin and breath and compacted air, how any distance between you pulses with the memory of touch. There is a softness to the desire, and a recognition, because in dreams it is about return, about visiting the caves of your sub-conscious and finding the little pieces of history you have hidden there.

You get to spend hours in these dark rooms together, turning over your memories, sinking in to the want they hold. There is such ache to the bone and longing in the muscle here – in the reach, on the skin – the hunger saturates you until you are soaking wet, and you can lick the sadness from your fingers as you part.

It tastes of all that is lost in waking hours and it lingers like an echo through the rest of your day.

The dream is always the same.

It tastes of all that is lost in waking hours …

Eidyia’s note: This is a work of fiction … and yet. Such ache to the bone and longing in the muscle – I never did know what you made of these words (when they were written just for you).