A Dream Lover by Frederick K Foote

You’re alone hurrying by under cloudy night skies.

I’m lost in the shadows on the lips of the fetid alley. I’m feverish, near fainting, fading, fading away. You catch a glimpse of me, spy me, eye me, wonder, imagine me. You race away to lock your doors, check your windows.

In your simple underwear you slip between smooth, clean, cotton sheets and dream me, dream me tall, slender, strong.

ou’re back at the dark mouth of the alley, biting your lip, scolding yourself for being foolish, a foolish girl, but you see me in the dark. You see the outline of me, tall, slender, strong – your dreams realized.

You’re home, at home inside leaning against the closed front door, breathing hard, praying, praying that you’re not losing it.

Dinner, alone, an extra glass of wine to help, help you sleep – to dream.

Dream me. Dream me, well muscled, full lips, kind eyes, brown skin, then back to the white, white teeth, behind the lips… A ready curious darting tongue…

##

You’re at the alley, again, again moonless night, night holding your breath, breath, hoping, praying, praying that, that you see my designer face. Face me. You see my face – the face you intended.

“Thank you. Thank you.”

You gasp, back up, swallow, moan from your gut to your fingertips.

Run! Run! Home. Home. At the wine, immediately at the wine. You swear to God no more visits to the alley.

Fall asleep on the couch, dream. Dream about my lips, chest, hands, thighs, between the thighs – dream me – please dream me. Complete me. Make me what you need. Make me whole.

##

No more alley. No more alley. Your mantra. You hold out until midnight.

“I’m here, here for you, don’t run, don’t – I’m yours only yours.”

You’re back at home. Methodical. No wine. A cold shower. Call your mother, your best friend. Watch TV. It just can’t be true. Ignore it. Forget me or accept me?

“Listen to me. It’s true. I’m real. Call out to me. I’ll come to you. I’m yours, yours alone. Alone. Only yours. Call me. Command me.”

Another shower.

Beautiful, sexy underwear, lip gloss, brush your hair. A glass of wine. You unlock the front door, slip between the silk sheets. Wait. Hope. Fear. Need. Desperate.

“See me, feel me, behold me, own me. I’m yours. You’re my creator. I owe you everything. Let me worship you.”

##

I’m real. Solid. Others see me, at last. I solidify as you fade, fade dead away. I love your place. Your best friend’s a true friend. We console each other in your, now, my, bed.

Your mother’s glad we had each other even if it was only for a few months.

I catch a glimpse of you in the alley. I hurry on. I hope someone else sees you some day, one day, but not too soon. Never is too soon.

 

Frederick K Foote

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