Days crawl by. I languish in my world of dreams, ever groaning inwardly for that which is beyond my reach. Haunted by shades, whispers of a suppressed memory, my nostrils sense fragrances long-diffused into the mists of my own history. My thirsting mouth is once again encircled by the coolness of a ghostly kiss; it falls like a snowflake on a dying fireplace. As it melts away, all I am left with is the familiar ache of melancholia that comes after the revisitation of a numbingly beautiful memory.
My body's yearning never stops; I can do nothing but weep bitter tears when I think on it.
There are such impulses in my blood as keep me awake into the small hours, my mind weaving desperate visions, as though the mere idea of a lover will take the edge off my longing. At times I really do seem to feel warm arms grasping me, and my face tilts upwards, my lips gasping for the kiss that will finally bring me to life, and my heart sighs in deep relief. And for a while my skin shivers and my head reels with the intoxication of that imagined embrace. Then all fades into black once more, as I am reminded of just how far - how impossibly far - my dreams are from reality.
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