I proved myself wrong last night. I told myself in very strict terms, I wouldn't dream of you anymore. Apparently I am a rebel from the waist down—against myself.
I wanted you—want, wanted you. But dormant, I knew my desire should linger in that very nature. You were behind me—on the bed. You curled up—your knees pressing against my back. I turned my head—discovered it was you—wanted to cry because I knew you were gone and this wasn't meant to last, but this sort of linear thinking was not occurring in my head. The quiet companion wanted me to desecrate you but I wanted to close my eyes and retain this sensory imprint, even if it would wash away like chalk on the sidewalk after a summer downpour. The downpour comes, and you wash away, down the drain, forever irretrievable now that you've left.
