I don’t jerk awake with my hand pressed to my chest like people always do in movies. Instead, I’m awoken by a sting of grief in my heart as I try to cling to the image of his smiling face. Of the feeling of his soft skin under my palms. I’m desperate to do what he wants and press my mouth against his pouty, pink rosebud lips. I want to slide my arms around him and kiss him until we’re both out of breath. I want to stay with him forever and never let him go.
But it’s impossible.
His vivid image wanes like the colors of an old photograph and I roll over on my stomach and pull the blanket over my head.
It was just a dream.
Again.
As I bury my wet cheeks in my pillow, I inhale deeply. As if hoping the scent of his familiar citrusy shampoo would still linger after all this time. But all I
