… even hero’s have the right to dream.

I dreamt last night that you were swimming naked, in the shadow of the mountain, like you always used to on hot, humid days like this to cool down from being outside in the garden. Days like this, where there is no breeze to mop the sweat from your brow, and it mixes instead with the icy water leaving a funny taste on my lips after you kiss me – chlorine and salty. How your eyes used to gleam the way they do, childlike in awe and wonder, as something as pleasing as swimming. Wrapping your Superman towel around your body, you’d get your book and lay beside me naked. While I watched you from the corner of my eye.

 

I dreamt last night that you were sitting opposite me, eating your breakfast at the gym after training. Your two slices of whole-wheat toast, poached eggs (easy done!) and steamed mushrooms. Your glass half mango/orange mixed with a cube of ice. Your coffee black with a single spoon of brown sugar. The way you folded the newspaper first in half, and then quartered. I remember what it was like to stand anywhere in the gym and know that you were there. Feel you there even if I couldn’t see you. What it was like that first time and how I nearly fell off the treadmill.

 

I dreamt last night of you asleep next to me. Some part of you touching me throughout the night. I remember it took me so long to fall asleep, after you were gone, missing that touch. The way you used to sleep with no pillows and I with three or four at a time. The way your body would snake across the bed searching for mine – and mine edging closer to the abyss. How in the full moonlight I could see your eyes shimmering looking at me as I watched you. You an early riser, me the late owl but somehow we always managed to find time for Sunday mornings. Reading the papers.

 

I dreamt last night of us having sex, usually how it would start typically in the kitchen as we were making food for the guests all around us. How you used to find a way to catch my eye, and with just that look I would know what you were thinking about. With just a look I would answer back: yes. The whole evening taking on a new foreplay as music, food, wine, conversation, touching of our hands, feet, bodies, tongues all being a tog-of-war. Sometimes I would catch you looking at me. Sometimes you would catch me looking at you. Always reminded how handsome you are.

 

I dreamt last night that you were here again. But that was just a dream. Some mistakes can’t ever be made right. Not even with the words “I’m so very, very sorry I broke your heart.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

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