This is a dream. When she closes her eyes, the pictures come, riding along the fine hairs of her neck and draining all sense away, like perspiration. Leaving only the dream, and what lingers in her mind after the lights go out. A favourite smell, a forgotten taste. Fingertips on shoulders as one recalls some distant embrace. What we dream we often forget, just after the first cup of coffee. The last of a good nights sleep falls off , discarded, replaced by a day heavy with thoughts. Meetings, agendas, responsibility. Dissapointment and success. More coffee and you might stare out of your office window, or chance to look up while you walk down the street, with your mind playing at introspect. In that moment the dream remembers you, echoing in a familiar gaze, that favourite smell, that taste. Those fingertips now on your spine, unwilling to let go.
