In dreams, the buttons always come undone so easily. Our thumbs never fumble and the fabric is always of the finest weave. I love the sound the way it falls from our shoulders the silken slipping of your shirt as it is shrugged away, the sleeves of my dress.
Not like in real life, when the zippers tend to clench, the snaps never give and blue jeans leave welts on the skin that won’t fade for hours.
No, in this special version of reality (the one where we cobble together what we know with what we want), the clothing is made of subtler threads. They have the courtesy to be somewhere else when no longer needed.
And just like our flesh, in this telling, we have opted for honesty with only the slightest burnishing. The pucker of a scar fades here, another blemish is refined in shadow and beauty is something not lost on detail.
But here I stand, naked and unafraid. I look down and see my chest, heaving a little, slightly out of breath. I see my arms and at the end of them I find my hands. And what will I feel, reaching out to you naked as well and both of us hoping out defects our outweighed by our sincerity.
And as our hands meet, palms out, the fire has made us and the room seem extra real. Here we are, palms touching, eyes fastened on the other, waiting for the next move. And like in dreams, our noses will not clash as our kiss comes together in those first seething moments. One will not accidentally knee the other as we drop to the floor. And the stone will never be as cold and hard as it might in other versions of the story.
No, here, in the place where we control the way we come together, the sheets are always fresh, there is always just the right amount of light and no matter how hard it rains outside, it’s warm as toast in here.
