The gift of delusion

The sky is gray and the air cold. It's just another winter day.

I wish the warmth of your skin was here, now, pressed against my skin. But it isn't. Just the cold air surrounding me, just the cruelty and inanimate presence of bed sheets and flannel pajamas.

Your aroma still holds to my pillows, your smile holds to my memory, a smile of fulfillment that is so vague now, so absent.

It hurts to be! It hurts to smile, to shine, to embrace each dream with the innocence of a child, with a will of steel, with the purity of virgin hearts. The scars do not let me forget, the scars and the cravings...

I wish a little bit more, always more, never to reach perfection, never to be satisfied, never to take anything for granted, never to stop, stop loving, stop dreaming, stop trying.
I would hold you in my arms again and make the same mistakes, hold you in my arms and press my lips against yours longly, truly, deeply. Kiss you over and over again for a glimpse of that smile, a glimpse of that bight shiny eyes that make cloudy, gray, cold days into warm symphonies of blooming flowers on a spring afternoon, with a sweet breeze blowing between the little space between our fused bodies.
I wish I was you and you were me, just to see if I can be, be without hurting.
I dream: delusion, delirium, dementia. In the end of all things: love, passion, desire!