Whatever it is that you want to make me into, I have already become.
Sleep is but a whisper that I cannot hear, and so I sit on the edge of our bed staring out at the distant white foam of the waves caressing our beach over and over. In the low tide, the dark expanse of sand outside our window extends far into the deep night. In the dim light from a lone naked bulb under the overhang atop the entry door of our cottage, the silvery drizzle of rain fills the window with a ghostly curtain fall.
But for the sound of the rain, the world outside could be a photograph. One that I cannot forget. One that never leaves your dreams.
I can hear your gentle breathing on the bed behind me, and if I close my eyes I can imagine your familiar curves rising and falling with every breath.
In time, the night deepens and the bed draws me again to its embrace. As I turn to lay beside you, you ask, "How long are you going to take all my dreams?"