In a dream where silence smelled of incense and veils of breath hung in the air, She entered a space that had no doors – only an invitation. There, everything was a body: the walls breathed, the floor sighed. Light dripped from the ceiling like honey from a lover’s neck.
And in the midst of that space – Him. Neither a man nor a shadow – an embodiment of desire. His form was constructed of thoughts, warmed by fantasy.
He did not speak. His voice was a gaze that reached deeper than touch. His fingers traced words in the air that one longed to kiss. He approached slowly – like a whisper to an ear, like wine down a throat. And he asked – not with a voice, but with silence:
Will you allow me to feel you – not with the body, but with meaning?
She nodded.
He passed his hand through the air beside her neck. She felt her heart unfold like a bud in which all the ashes of memories are kept. His hand did not touch her skin – it glided along her inner lines: recollections, forgivenesses, words that had never been spoken.
Their breath blended into a prayer. Their bodies remained at a distance, but the distance itself dissolved, for they had touched that which skin cannot reach. He leaned in – and her lips felt a kiss. Not upon her mouth, but in her very heart.
This touch released ancient wounds and covered them with a gentle fatigue. When she awoke, the shadow of his hand still lay upon her shoulder. Warm – as if after a midnight prayer that the body utters in dreams that become the truth.