You intruded upon my reverie, strolling into the frame with your hands tucked into the pockets of your laundered jeans, your face likewise hidden by the artfully angled tilt of your cap. This isn't the first time you've paid a visit to me while I've been on cloud nine -- though you already know the difference between meeting in the subconscious and when you're still in the real world as I wander the dreamworld.
They warn me of you. They say those who surround themselves with fortresses of ice have something to hide. But maybe what they don't realize is that those who build these walls have something to protect.
What of Eros? Each night he visited Psyche, he never let her trace his face in the darkness. Like a wisp of a dream or a nightmare, the next morning left nothing tangible for her to see or hear or smell or touch or taste as proof. But she would have to be three-quarters dead if she didn't remember how she'd felt.
Love is the incubus. I can feel your teasing whisper crawling up my neck. He's already swallowed you whole.
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