Dreaming

Have you dreamed about you? How do you dream? Do you dream?


Your questions are killing me at the same time that I'm trying to transform the sleeping time on peace. I'm not up; I'm not sleeping, but your inquiries are just there.


It's just casual! I said, at the same time, I'm trying to defend myself from my real thoughts. Would it be possible that I'm taking something from her when I've got you in my nights? What does that mean?


You wake me up again. It's the third time in this week you say her name; you're saying upset and naked. I'm allegedly screaming my love for her, everything in my dreams, with the complicity of the night. I deliberately don't remember any detail; I don't know what are you talking about.


There's no real explanation on that. It's only in my dreams. I barely remember her, but she's there. I have a solid routine to make everything except thinking, excel filling my thoughts. I'm trying to feed every second of my life with a lot of shit that can help me to avoid the single time, the dreaming time.


I'm trying to fuck you as hard as I can. I put my best effort to taste and smell every inch on you. I fulfil my senses with each sound of you, and I take for me the memories of your skin, even if you said it hurts, even if you want me not to stop. I'm trying to make you scream and feel satisfied enough to not going anywhere else for this night, or two or three, whatever this it takes. I need you like the spy of my head.


And the next morning the same questions. Who's her? Why are you dreaming about her? When was the last time you saw her? And I answer that I don't know. You and I, both of us know it's a lie, but it's enough for now.


But I swear I have never been looking for her in those labyrinths. I don't want to jump over the fence and enter quietly enough to listen to her, just her voice, just one moment. I've never dragged myself on the wet floor to find her address, just written in the lowest part of that old black door. And I've neither received her apologies nor have felt those shaky kisses and her frozen smile. I barely remember her, I wouldn't be able to recognise her voice, I don't have records on the memories of her skin, and I'm sure she's smells like the most typical tropical fragrance that is popular now. But she's still punctual, on every piece of my dreams. Even I don't remember all.


It's morning again. It's sunny again. It's time to forget until tonight.