I dreamt about you last night, as it happens. Truly. It’s been my less than sterling experience that when someone says ‘I dreamt about you last night’ it’s as an excuse or prelude to seduction. To tell them sweet words dripping with honey. To paint your fantasy over their flesh and watch them as they heave with unbidden desire for sinful reality. To dream of a lover has become a cheap and sickly ploy to invoke base desires. A safe ‘out’ for expressing to someone your need for them without risking too much heartbreak. ‘I had a dream we fucked last night, how weird is that?’ has become an all too common hint for the oblivious or delirious. I can’t object to this, I even admit I’ve done it myself. But I hate myself for it now. It sullies the moment when you truly dream of someone. The experience of having another mind riding along in your subconscious, invited by your own hand, is a blissfully unique one. But I did dream about you last night, as it happens. And you can tell it’s true, because it was not a dream I’d ever imagine I would, or could, have. We were there. But we weren’t. It wasn’t us but instead the idea of us. We were…giants. Gods. We were the wind and the mountains and the oceans. We were thoughts in a colourless world. We dripped colour in our wake. Our motions painted vistas in the canvas of the world. Every step we took we left art behind. And we hungered. We starved. In you I saw more than just another of my kind. I saw release. I saw a drop of water in the desert. I saw something that I knew belonged with me, satisfying my hungers and my thirsts. Something I could throw down and feast on until our minds became lost in the sins of our flesh. I saw your lust paint your lips a deeper shade of crimson and something inside me roared. We threw ourselves at one another, and where we clashed colour exploded into the world. Indigos and violets, aqua and ultramarine, dripping from our touch where your waves met my shores. The wind of fingers caressed the forest of my sex. Your moans were the sound of thunder. Your touch was lightning. You set a fire in my risen wood. You were the sky above me and you made my body quake and the mountains shudder. Legs like valleys wrapped themselves against my waist, and with a squeeze of your savage thighs the tip of my mountain pierced the lips of Heaven. The sky opened up and descended to me, swallowing the land in cloud. A storm raveged the world. And with a shudder it disgorged itself. The sky rained rivers across a desert that greedily swallowed up the waters that flowed from the temple of your sex. A deep and aching throat was parched with your liquids. Colour poured and melted from us. We poured and melted into each other. Your touch was like melting wax, scalding and fluid and thick and just…there. Your body melted into mine and I felt myself flow into you, the mounds of your lips pressing fully against mine, taste pouring into my mouth. I hungered. I starved. You fed me. Our sex was the clashing of continents. The world rocking. The sun trembling and settling. Beautiful colour, bright as sin, poured through our veins and into the heart of the Earth and where it touched the world life sprang forth. Flowers grew in meadows where the dripping of your sex made lakes and pools. The sound of your orgasm ripped pleasure into the world, your moans and screams breathed the wind and the skies. You pushed me. You edged me. You brought me to the brink of my lustful destruction. And then I woke up.