Influenced Dreams
I dream in black and white and lightning blue. Gossamer curtains billow, and the abstract scent of her skin embraces me, and her laugh is carried on the wind as I accept that I've been duped. That somehow, somewhere, I've made a mistake. That, unbeknownst to me, she knew she’d be leading this dance, and now she is. And I simply don’t know the steps, and she watches me stumble with a crease in her brow, as if she doesn't realize that I can’t keep up. And with one of her hands on my shoulder, and one of my hands on her waist, and the smallest impulse, we could be but a millimeter apart. I have no dearth of impulse when dealing with her.
And if I so chose, I could lead the dance. All I’d have to do is pull her nearer.
But my body fails to react, and my heart refuses to slow, and I’m hoping that she’ll pull me nearer first. That she’ll end this imaginary dance with a bare gesture, something as simple as a kiss. Something that for once doesn’t contradict observation, something that won’t turn my progressive opinions into something even more convoluted. Something, anything, as perfectly human, simple, and vulnerable as a kiss. Evidence that she is in fact still human. That her seditious influence is purely one-sided, that underneath her assuredness she could still be as weak as I feel.
But would a kiss be enough to satisfy the thirst she’s ignited in me, the appetite forming tangible burning in my throat, itching in the spaces between my fingers? I don’t think it will be. Sexually frustrated by the walls that separate us, by the ill-fitting uniform she wears. The pale blue coveralls that faintly accentuate the curve of her hips... And I can no longer deny that I am human, susceptible.
Sensations, temptations, frustrations. And I feel like a fool.