The scent of honey, nectar, sweet ambrosia on the air, I lift my face to the wind, my mouth open, my tongue tastes. My ears listen and hear. The very pores of my skin open and seek warmth, seek soft touch, caress, immersion. My mind intuits, opens, receives the gentle invasion.
My eyes are closed.
Do not see.
Do not look.
How does one see a Dream?
He is beautiful, my senses tell me. I never see. I do not wish to see, only to smell, taste, hear, feel, know. Every fiber of my being knows every fiber of his.
He comes to me by night. Not every night. He is a fickle lover, though his absence does not indicate betrayal, simply absence. He is simply not there.
He comes disguised, hidden in his mantle of Sleep, which he is careful never to let fall on me. He is warm and cool, soft and hard. He morphs us to our desires; I am no longer sure which are mine and which are his.
He tells me I know him. I do, I am sure I do. He is my reality, my consciousness until his cousin, bright and magnificent, rears his head, arrogantly banishing my lover to some seclusion unknown.
He leaves me with a kiss that tastes of stardust and moonbeams and silver sand, cool and moist and light. He shapes me, he morphs me, my perception, my clear illusion, my lucid deception. He promises to return. He is an exquisite liar, but these words are truth, free of silken cobwebs and heavy sweetness. He will return. He always does.
And I am left with sand in my eyes, his parting gift to ensure that I do not see him.