A dream with structure rich in detail, I could see all the smoke wisp away and hear the irony in the man's voice, ringing over his white hair and the distinguished din of his jacket. He put out his cigarette at the challenge. The children continued to fly.
Children I can never remember. Their faces are too soft, too new to make an imprint on my mind.
I felt his hard chest against mine, it was nothing, a hug. But I felt it in the dream and outside, a memory squeezing me, "remember, remember". I don't know who it was I have not had illustrious love affairs. There is only one person it could have been, and it was not him.
He was as tall, as broad and as passionate. But he would never have let himself touch me like that. Like what? It was only a hug. He's in love with me, he says. I think he is deluded. Years later and much bad blood cried, how can he be? How different was he from what I called love?
My fingers should speak, or my lips, or my skin which tingles and pulse that races even as I think back. Simon and Garfunkel were talking about two of me. To be in love, please don't kill your self; I cannot love despair, I have thrown guilt out of the window to the past.
There is the residue, a layer of double entendres and riddles below the memory of loving him, which surfaces sometimes and dies down.
But I still don't know who it was in the dream. There are the mornings to wake up to, with beautiful yellow sun on my face and an ache in the pit of my stomach, to want the familiar taste. Some twelve years, and it does not taste the same - that five minutes of childish ecstasy at the one recipe we have never been able to produce since.
I remember, boss, that is my strength.
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