I'd make a fine stone in the Duck and Drake game - skimming through the surface with the bare necessary contact, to sink when slowed down;
you had seen me slowing down and sink with a faint splash, the moment you said it was better that we meet in letters, best we do not meet at all; or did I say that - I do not remember; perhaps yes, for you never said a word which could reconcile me with my self which I left that evening on the shores of the big city and hurried back, leaving you to go round and around - the cab guy picking customers and dropping - nobody ever finding their true destination but only places to go.
Ever since I have housed myself in the crowded cafes where people smoke cheap/semi-expensive cigarettes and sip on tea/coffee/lime-tea/black -tea/ginger-lime-tea and talk- the talking never ends and it is an all right feeling sitting in the bright light, knowing that people have things to say when I can vaguely recollect my thoughts. If I was a Jean-Paul Sartre, I would avoid pondering over your thoughts like the beer mug in front of his eyes at which he would avoid looking for half an hour straight, but I am not a French existentialist philosopher and reading four and a half dead poets a day, plunging myself into nicotine only tires me enough to fall asleep, and this is when you enter my dreams.
Your arrival is agreeable to me and I always find myself sitting confused in one of those galleries which my mind constructs - a glittering set for the presence of the two of us - faces of other people in my dreams, I do not recall.
We kiss and I am almost convinced that it is real - there is no room to feel otherwise; much like the first time when I kissed you and you moaned a little, quivered a bit; here we have it all going - our tongues slithering our soul - teeth biting our nerves - this is how a kiss should be; if there was a thing called a 'perfect kiss', then our kissing portrait would make rounds of the internet under the Creative Commons license - a picture which young undergrads would use in their assignment - perhaps frame it on the wall and when the grades come out, they would get wasted with their pocket money in one of the many sun-lit bars where the music is loud and kisses are stolen behind the closed doors of the public washroom. You leave me in my dreams for a moment or two and I get restless again, taking fast, counted steps to find you and you arrive again - such a relief it is to see you, and know that it is a relief for you to see me too;
to life I wake up, knowing that you are far away and that I could still be with you in less than three hours from now, but if I should - I do not know. I step outside and aggressively look for a cigarette - a certain tangible object so willing to burn for me and wrap myself in a jacket like I once wrapped you in my arms. Your warmth was more than my jacket bought at a fifty-percent discount could provide, I thought you felt the same but perhaps I was not of your size or you did not like winter anyway.