I had a dream about you last night. You were sitting in a row boat, being carried down the river through a ruined city. The moon was big and beautiful overhead, shining from your skin and the small, rippling waves of the water.
Everything was black, and the city was dark. Yet peaceful. You were in a long dress, one of those old fashioned ones. You lay back and pulled it up over your hips. You pleasured yourself as your boat bobbed its way through the quiet night.
I wanted to touch you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t have a body of my own, you see. I could only watch as your cheeks flushed, as your mouth opened to vocalise your desire. I could only watch and yearn as your fingers reached inside you to press against that spot you love.
I wanted to enter you, to taste you, to hear you cry my name. But in that dream, you had forgotten me. You worshipped your own name, and it was beautiful. You asked of, and gave to, no one but yourself and it was exquisite. No sound existed in that vacuum but your own need. You discarded your dress to float on its own in the river. A pale ghost beneath the surface, sinking down and down to be lost to the deep currents.
You watched it sinking, and then admired your reflection in the water. You smiled at yourself and saw all the beauty I had once contrived to convince you existed.
You had forgotten me, and you were happier for it. You ignored the ruined city. You ignored the dark. You saw only the light and the beauty. I hope it remains that way, for you deserve that much from those ruins. From them, from me, you deserve only silence.
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