Dream of you…by G. Mramor


: you can sleep here tonight, she lays a pillow and blankets on the couch and they stay there just a moment looking through the dark at the faces held by it, and the breathing chests the breathing hearts the breathing spirit of some unspoken that only a looking in all its silence can give rise to, he moves forward and she breaks the hold, turning her eyes away from his and moving to pass him by, a thousand ghosts from a thousand nights from a thousand dreams, but always the same, yet there is some heart who remains, some troubled beat who knows not that only in looking can they ever be, only in silence ever breathe the same breath, so he turns with his hand reaching for hers trembling and scared and she turns just a moment that in his eyes is burned an eternity in the hall of mirrors where his heart once dwelt, she is hurt, as if where their bodies meet must hands retreat, even if there be some hint of heat, some presage of her hand in his and his in hers so perfect, fore a heart beats for one and for one alone,

yet there exists something in a hurt besides hurt, and this fills him, he follows the trail of her naked footsteps across the room to the stairs where just before she turns around the banister she looks down at him, she is hurt, he goes quietly up the stairs and around the banister and here entering her room on the far side she does not turn rather enters and closes and closes and closes her door until there just a hope that a wind through her open window could close, and he passes snoring giants and hawking harridans, and rooms vibrant with another who lives no more in this house and like her wishes never to return, and at the door he does not pause but pushes it open, she is touched all over with light, she stands in a whiteshirt ending midway down her thighs, her hair is pushed behind her left ear and falls down the rightside of her back strong and sandy, her face is caught in a pause, the great softness of her sandy face, her round cheeks, her small little nose, her small but deepkissing pink lips, and her eyes like the explosion of two stars before a great hazelgrey sea of birthing space, she looks at him with those eyes, her lips parting as if to speak, her eyes, she is hurt,

she turns away from his eyes, from his always looking eyes, and her hands find the end of her shirt and her smooth belly, trickled with babyhair and goosebumps and shivurring nopleaseno, and the silent heave, and her chest, her brownbrown nipples soft at the end of her breasts small, and her hair in a screen hides her face, and one two three tears he never sees but in dreams cast for the wake of her onelove heart, as she moves across the room, across him sitting there at the edge of her bed watching, reaching without moving the untouchable, and she comes to the dresser and knows opening the dresser his hand on her shoulders strong but weakening now as his chest as his belly falls cold on her back and his hands move cold inside her and her lips, her lips tremble for his coldbreath, and her head back and his lips near and her head turning and his face rising and their eyes meeting, so much hurt

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