The Waking Dream

The Waking Dream

In that darkness so filled with loving she sat astride him, awash with fulfilling them.  That all consuming intensity over took her with shocking force at each encounter.  There was no getting used to one another.  It was always the unstoppable force meeting the immovable  object. 

The rose petals clung to them as they did to each other, rocking in those aftershocks.  How many moments, how many breaths, how many beads of sweat passed away in those waves went uncounted, unnoticed.  Only they remained, only they existed.

After a time, when they came back into their separate selves, she spoke, her tongue still swollen with the taste of his skin, “I still can’t believe you’re real.”

“How much more proof do you need?” he laughed, waving his hands in mock surprise before wrapping his around her torso, his fingers still making love to her back, her shoulders.

He flipped over suddenly, hand behind her head, “besides,” he said, fingers and eyes tracing her face, sliding down her neck, across her collarbone, south to rest upon her breast, “how do you know if either one of us is awake?”

January 30, 2002
Tressa Lee Breen

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