This feels like a dream, but she has long ago lost her ability to discern dream from reality, death from life. She passes through the veil and the colors are more vibrant but it does not feel wholly different. She does not feel completely anew—and perhaps he does not either. Because did he not keep her company in those years? Did she not conjure some version of him? Was she not always surrounded by him?
So this feels like a dream and she gladly continues dreaming.
She presses into him greedily, hungrily, and demands more. She does not know how to be gentle when she is with him—does not know how to quell the aching in her belly, the neediness in her touch. She would devour him whole. She would sacrifice herself completely. She would give and give and give—
“I have missed you too,” she whispers quickly, the words flowing out of her immediately. “I thought of you every day.” Were there days in the afterlife? Did she count them? “You were never so real though,” she says in a way of saying that he was better now—it was better with the heat of him, the feel of him beneath her lips. It was always so much better in this reality, as skewed as it may be for her.
It doesn’t matter though.
The skewed reality doesn’t matter when he is here with her and she is with him and the rest of the world is melting away around them both. She presses into him more. “Garbage,” she whispers, because she can. Because there is air in her lungs to push the word out, to form it on the edge of her lips.
“I don’t care how much time we have,” she whispers. “It’s enough.”
It won’t be, she knows, (it is never enough) but she will lie because she can.
I reached out to undress it and love let me down