I dreamed about her last night again. She was a photographer and we were in some African country. We got off a bus and were crossing the street that was painted with many white lines. The sun peering over the buildings casting shadows as we walked. For an instance she looked back to see if I was still in tow. As her stride inched through the lip of a shadow shed by darkened buildings to the west, the sun effortlessly flooded her face with angelic luminosity. All I could do was marvel at the blossoming brilliance, leaving me rather incapacitated.

That genuine love feeling. When you love them so much you almost want to be glued to them. You reach around their body for a hug and that gentle current of warmth magnetizes your souls for they’re finally dancing together in harmony. Your head is a flutter and for an instance it gives you the perceived power that if you held on tight enough you could pull your body into them and become one. Lover’s fusion.

How can one experience this so vividly in a dream? Had I not awoken to the scornful landscape of a Manitoba winter, I may have believed it. I love living in a dream, but quite frankly, most of the time it just teases me. Please photographer girl, find this tortured fool.