A Kiss Before You Wake
Waking in an empty bed
Her kiss is the brush of silk against your lips; the faintest taste, the slightest touch. It caresses your neck and shoulders, flushes your cheeks, and raises a flutter beneath your skin. You float with your eyes closed, your breath forgotten at your throat, and cling to a sensation that you know can’t last. And it doesn’t. It slips away, fading to an impossible hunger, a whisper that gnaws at you until there is nothing left.
And then it forces you to open your eyes.
Pillow folds leave a crease of reality on your cheek. How long has it been? Days? Weeks? Longer than that? You try to focus but the room remains hazy and grey. Are the curtains drawn to stop the light from seeping in or to prevent the gloom from leaking out? You push a lethargic hand along the mattress, groping for any warmth that she may have left behind. The sheet ripples between your fingers and your hand comes away cold. Has the room stolen traces of her already? Was she ever here at all?
You withdraw your hand and nestle it beneath your body before it is infected with the truth.
Sleep beckons, urging you to plunge back beneath the surface and escape the emptiness around you. And you embrace it. It washes over you as your eyelids tumble and your chest flutters. Your lips curl at the edges and then part gently. Poised. And there it is. The faintest touch. The taste. The brush of silk against your lips. Her kiss.
