Loss, Longing, Lost.

Not a day goes by when I don't think of him in some small measure. Last night, however, he re-emerged in dream. The subconscious cameo was a new occurrence. He didn't look like himself, not like the last time I'd seen him. I'd aged him to an approximation of what I believed him to look like now. Though different, he looked good and his aura was unmistakeable.

He stood there, not talking to me but watching me. From another room, disembodied, familiar voices held him in conversation. They prattled on, oblivious to our sexual tension, like when the whole affair happened. Their intonations rose and dipped melodically, happily. They were none the wiser.

I could feel his eyes on me, calling with an unspoken yearning. Nervously, I busied myself, all the while waiting and hoping he'd be done talking soon, giving me his undivided attention. The hurt melted away at our proximity, the promise of what may still become. I think of the time that had passed, a swell of joy of all that I wanted to share with him.

When he addresses me, he speaks of a life I don't know, where the years seem so distant as the lives we've led. Images of places he's been and what he's done, spring forth from his mouth. They flood my mind with happiness, sorrow and…

… I awaken. I'm alone and I'm hard, an arousal bourne from remembrance. I don't have the desire to ease my burden, it's futile. I lay there for a moment before I get up, resuming my emotionally blunted existence, going through the motions.