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By Zenia
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I dreamt you.

Created out of fear and passion, I am shaken when you stand before me, demanding that I care. All I want is to wrap a curl about my finger and pull your head down, gently, to mine

I molded you.

Like a gem-cutter, I am meticulous. Meteing out words that shape and smooth each facet of your character. Do not crack. Do not shatter. I can show you care.

I created you.

After you materialize from nothing, I run my hands over your face and chest. You look down with eyes like honey. Or do I imagine the affection? Skin, warm and smooth beneath my hands. I sink to your feet. Such perfect feet. You, yo u touch me. Your fingers trail along my nose, trace my lips, then slide down to my jaw. Remember to breathe. With my tongue I map the lines of your palm. Taste salt, taste warmth, taste you.

I imagined you.

I want you to speak my name with the soft rumble of your voice. With a smile--flash of teeth, crinkle of eyes--make me follow you. Construct an image of perfection: you and I in an embrace. Speak to me of memory. Do not laugh. Clench your hands into fists and command me go. Or stay. Or...lie in your bed, naked, until you touch me. I wake, sweating, wondering what is left.

I separated from you.

When you left I thought, freedom at last, but something of you echoes. Promise of a cause. Promise and trust. Slavery. I would damn you to burn. As I burn. Touching pains, touching--

When did your hands become so callused?


Ah, poetry cannot help that I dreamt you.

I needed you.

I need you.


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