I dreamt—oh,
how I dreamt

that you were carrying
my child.

I do not remember who you were,
nor do I remember who I was
in this particular dream.
Perhaps a favourite character of mine
from a TV show I love.

But my body was not my body,
nor was your body yours.

In spirit, I knew you
and I knew myself,
and that's all that really mattered.

I still don't remember who you were, though,
my dream lover...

my subconscious desire?

We fell under peril and
ran
from some villain. Things
went wrong,
as things in my life are wont to do.

This villain, threatening
our child, our happiness,
was—of course—still less of a
monster
than me.

I do not recall how it ended.
But
I kissed you.
Soft, and sweet, and loving;
your lips were so warm
and your body, your hands—
they felt like
home.

That kiss...
it was perhaps
the gentlest thing I've ever done,

and so that is how I came to wake up:
because I knew it wasn't real.

I am not gentle. I do not love.