Michael O'Mahony
(10/20/04)
I dreamed of you last night. I hadn't intended to. I believed myself in
need
of a refreshing, dreamless sleep; a period of oblivion to prepare
myself for
another week. My subconscious, though, filled with words and thoughts
and
images and ideas, had plans of its own. Back again to my need to write,
to
find some kind of catharsis in all these frustrations before they
overwhelm
me. It’s like vomiting, some say, but they’re wrong. It’s more like
masturbation; an intentional release; a physical high borne on
emotional
wings.
Release. Wings. Handcuffs and butterflies, butterflies and handcuffs.
White
skin stained by ink and penetrated by metal. Subtle words and stillborn
promises. Distance, frustration, silent screams. Pleasure between the
lines
and beneath the language of the everyday. Superimposed, hidden, lost
and
found.
I put them all in black, the four walls of my bedroom, and I trimmed
them in
red. I put your eyes in blue, framed them with long, dark hair. I
dressed
you like a whore, like an exhibition, like my lust; corset and
stockings and
boots and sheer panties. All wrapped up like a gift, all displayed in
the
voyeur’s gaze of cheap neon light through broken blinds.
This is how my sleep-self paints you, every aspect of you. I dream the
things you say, the way you look at me, the smile on your face that
lets me
know it’s okay to steal kisses and more. You feel warm and submissive
beneath my hands, smell like rain and taste like cigarettes. You’re not
so
shy when your eyes are closed. You laugh when I tie you to the bed, and
you
mean it.
This is my dream, so it’s okay if I kiss you hard because I like how it
reddens your lips, and it’s alright if I want to bite the soft, warm
skin of
your throat. I can claim your breasts with fingers and mouth, make you
sigh
and maybe whisper my name, run my hands all over your body, slip down
between your thighs and press my tongue up against all your dirty
little
secrets, find out how you taste when you’re falling. My fantasy, so I
don’t
need permission to kneel over you and put my cock in your mouth, to
brush
your hair aside so I can watch you. I’m dreaming, so I can have my way
with
you, press my weight down on you and let you feel what you do to me
pressed
up inside you. I can fill you, stretch you, take you where you’ve been
needing to go, steal your breath and your control, make you understand
my
desire.
I can dream inside my dream, a world within a world, Russian dolls of
comfort and fantasy. I can wake up and still be inside you, hiding from
the
sun in twisted blankets and clouds of cigarette smoke. We can just be
getting started.
