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Sometimes I wake with nightmares of you still flashing in my eyes.

Sometimes tears, more often not.

In my nightmares, we are touching again,

flesh to flesh, the whiteness of our skin blending

once more in bliss.

But more prominent are confusion and blankness;

flashing deserts, dried oasis,

and yes in the nightmares you want me to take you,

but the moment before the moment I violently wake is

the moment

I refuse.

Maybe my body is trying to tell me

that my passion is a story,

that it was never the truth.

In my nightmares I don't know you

like I did before.

I don't love you.

Nevertheless, when I wake, I cry, I remember you potently,

and wish that in the dream,

I would have kissed you,

I would have let you hurt me,

I would have loved you like I always have.

What lies.

I need your voice, at least, if I'm to keep loving you.

Its time.

That's all.

Time and the knowledge that even though I loved you and it was real, the first, and sacred,

I also know that it was not.

Because your gone.

I would pass you by.

I would make you leave.

Somehow this knowledge will always be a nightmare to me.