Julian dozes off not long after Ghadar, comforted by her tepid warmth and steady breathing. He dreams of a garden. Of grass-covered dunes. Of a clear sky and hot sun, the air resplendent with orchids. He dreams of a hand in his. Palm sliding over palm. Fingers grazing over fingers. Wrist to wrist. Entwined. Inextricable. No ending. No beginning. He doesn’t know when it began, but he knows where. In his dream he gives in a hundred times, each of them different. He gives in to the hands on his shoulders. He gives in to the rush of adrenaline and danger. He gives in to his better nature. He gives in to a gnawing hunger. He gives in to a deliberate distance he made. In his dream he doesn’t pull away afraid.
In his dream he isn’t afraid.
He arrives at a door and offers his heart like a fresh kill. Take it, he says. Take it. I want no other knife but yours.
from correspondence by @macneiceisms