Couch Dreaming

Seeing her is like living for the first time. It’s like waking from a coma or peeling back one’s eyelids after a lifetime of blindness. Touching her means losing a sense of separateness and any desire to be alone or even the recollection of being alone.

I can’t remember a scrape, or a skim, or a stroke or a brush that happened to land upon my form before she came along. Her flesh that seeps into my rivets erases even the most vivid memories of others. Others? The thought seems ludicrous. I see only her.

We are alone now and she is upon me: attached, bind to my body. Gently she clasps my arm, and fingers the grooves and folds that mark my exterior. I wonder if she feels me melt under her weight and absorb her heat like metal in fire.

Our skins are aflame, we move as one: silk upon leather, brown against cream, her cream, my brown, my brown, her cream, my cream, her brown, cream, brown, cream, brown. She sinks deep. Ahhhhhh..

This is it. This is wonderful. This is right. And…. wait.

She gets up, pulls away. My frame almost shatters. I watch as she casually strides out the door. Please don’t go! I bounce back, in desperate retort. You’re making a mistake! My insides are churning.

Without even a glance or a sympathetic caress she is gone: out of my life, out of the store. And I am left, alone, bathed in the residue of her odour and marked by fresh indents of where hers body had lain upon mine.