Dreaming of You

I wake up dreaming of your tongue in my pussy. You are licking me gently, deliberately, almost as though you are trying to keep me from waking. In the fog of sleep I murmur my pleasure and shift my hips for more. I feel your phantom hands holding my legs in place, your tongue filling me, and I move my head from side to side.

"Please," I whisper, "please. I want to come."

You move your tongue to my clit and circle it, flicking it and then circling again, and I arch my back.

"Yes, yes," I say, as though you are with me in my bed.

You lap at my pussy with more pressure now and I'm squirming and squirming and moaning until finally, finally, I come.

When I open my eyes, you're not next to me. And I remember, again, that you're gone, and you're not coming back.

It has been almost a year. Some days are easier than others. There are days when I just go along, buying groceries and cleaning my shower. I see friends. I go to work. But there are still some days when it's hard to get out of bed and function. I stay under the covers, frozen in place. I try not to think of you. And then I do let myself think about you for a while, imagine myself back in your arms, and let the tears fall.

It's the ordinary things I miss, most of the time. I miss coming home to a house that had traces of you - your papers on the table, your toothbrush at the sink. Your jacket, hanging on the hook at the front door. I miss the smell of you in rooms you just left.

I miss having someone to talk to. We used to laugh about the tiny annoyances at work. I used to know that the weight of every decision didn't rest on my shoulders alone. Some days, even the smallest decision can stop me in my tracks. What kind of dirt do I buy to overseed the lawn? What wattage of lightbulb do I need for the lamp your mother gave us?

None of it is hard. But now, it's just me.

But the thing I miss the most keenly, the thing that makes me ache in my chest, is the memory of your touch each day. The feeling of your fingers taking mine at night before bed. The hand on my back when you walked behind me in the kitchen. The way you tucked my hair behind my ear when you were reassuring me. The easy hug when you got home.

And the sex.

Sex was as natural as talking for us. We worked out our arguments, told each other how we felt, expressed our stress and fear, all by fucking. Sometimes when we were feeling particularly tender, we called it making love. But it was still always fucking.

And you were so good at fucking me. You knew what I wanted. You paid attention to the sounds I made, the way I moved my head, the curve of my lip, the soft sighs falling from my mouth when I was deep in feeling you touch me. You knew when to be a little rougher with me, and when I needed you to be sweet.

You could be so, so sweet. You would whisper into my ear while tracing the line of my jaw or the curve of my hip.

"God, you're beautiful, sunshine," you would say, pausing to touch my cheek.

"You deserve to feel good," you'd say, kissing my neck.

"Let me take care of you," you'd say, slipping a finger between the lips of my vulva, finding my swollen clit and stroking it in long, slow strokes while I closed my eyes.

And when I needed it to be a little rougher, when we were fucking the anger and fear out of each other, you turned me over and fucked me from behind, hard, harder, taking a fistful of my hair and pulling my head back.

"Arch your back for me," you would say. "Let me hear you."

"Moan for me," you would say, hands on my hips as I writhed on top of you, using my body to jerk your cock. "Faster and faster," you would say, holding my breasts as I moved on you, lifting your hips to meet me.

"Fuck, yes," you would say, as we both came and I collapsed onto you.

You visit me again tonight in my dreams. This time you're lying behind me, holding me and pressing your hand between my thighs. I move my hips to grind against your hand.

"Let me make you feel good," you whisper, lips touching my ear as light as a feather.

Part of me knows this is a dream, but it feels so real, and when you tell me to get on top of you, I feel the hair on your legs and your solid body under me. Your hands lift me up and you tell me to move up so you can put your mouth on me. I grab the rails of the headboard to support myself, and lower my pussy onto your face. You squeeze the soft flesh of my ass to pull me harder into you and lick me. I feel your beard on my thighs.

"Give me all of your sweetness," you say, pressing your tongue into me. It feels so good, so real, so right. I want it to be real.

I grip the headboard and roll my hips into you. You reach up and take hold of my breasts, pulling my nipples with your fingers. I undulate against your mouth and you lick and suck my pussy.

I hear my moan as I get close to orgasm. I feel myself floating towards the surface, waking, and fight to stay in the dream, crying out your name as I come. I grasp at the edges of the dream as you begin to fade away.

"No," I say, "Please," I plead.

But I bob up into consciousness and hear the dog snoring in the corner, and the opening strains of morning birdsong out my window. I pull the covers over my head.

Since you started appearing in my dreams, the days have felt long. I try to get into a routine so that I don't have to think or make decisions for a while, but even so, the days drag on. I find myself wanting night to come in case you visit me, and dreading sleep in case you don't.

I try to see people. It's hard though; I've found it feels like I'm trying to talk to friends who are sitting in another room, away from me, and they can't quite hear what I'm saying.

I have a friend over for coffee. We are sitting in my back room, chatting about nothing in particular, when a cardinal lands outside my patio door.

"Oh," she says, "Look!" She points to the bird. "He's looking in the window!"

This isn't the first time I've seen this cardinal at my door. Sometimes it lands on my car mirror, sometimes it perches on the railing, but lately it has been standing outside the patio door, waiting.

"Cardinals are messengers from the dead, you know," she says, and her words hit me with a jolt. I try to fix my face, but she has seen my reaction. She reaches over to touch my arm.

"Maybe he's making sure you're okay."

Maybe. Maybe that's it. The cardinal stays for a while, watching us.

That night, I fall asleep quickly, but it's restless. I wake up at 2 am, have a drink of water, and sit on the side of the bed. You're not going to appear tonight, I realize, and feel that swell of tears begin in my chest. I take a few deep breaths, count to 10, and get back under the covers.

I'm not aware of having fallen back to sleep when I feel your body on top of mine.

"I'm here," you say. "Put your arms around me."

You kiss me and hold my face in your hands, like I remember you doing in soft moments between us. My body relaxes under your weight.

Somehow, I'm already wet and you are hard, and you slide into me with a sigh.

"I miss you so much," I say, and sob.

You stop moving in me, and hold me.

"I'm here," you say. "I love you," you say. So I give into the dream, and let you fuck me, like we did so many times, late at night in the quiet of our dark room.

After, I've got my head on your chest. You're holding me and running the backs of your fingers along my cheek. I don't remember having an orgasm. Maybe we didn't, this time. It doesn't matter.

"I'm never going to be totally gone," you say. "You're not alone, sunshine." The rhythmic motion of your fingers brushing back and forth on my cheek soothes me.

When I wake up, you're not in my bed. I pull the pillow to me and realize how much I miss your smell on the pillowcase. But I feel you, here, somehow.

It's sunny outside this morning, and I take my coffee mug out onto the deck. My dog lays at my feet. His nose twitches at the smells in the air. I close my eyes to the sun and take a breath.

There's a little clattering sound on the railing in front of me and I open my eyes. It's the cardinal, perched very close to me. I sit still, afraid to scare it away. My dog stays still, too, head raised. After a minute, the bird begins to chirp and warble. I sit and listen, and drink my coffee. I remember so many times spent with you on this deck, drinking coffee and listening to the birds. The cardinal stays for a long while, long after I've finished my cup, and I stay too.

I haven't had another visit from you in my dreams. But almost every day, I look out a window and see the cardinal in one of my trees, or sitting at the patio door looking in. And I still miss you, sometimes desperately, but I don't feel so alone.