By Martin Falatic
She came to me in the silence of my dreams, a silence like that of a Winter’s night: cold, calm, taut. Angel or demon, I do not know which, but she flew to me, her arms outstretched, her hair and her robes haphazardly fluttering in her wake. She touched me tenderly, and it was then that I saw myself as if from above, watching as she gently and with one motion pulled my skin from my bones, shed like an old coat. There was no graphic horror, only a vague uneasiness at losing the trappings of my mortality. I stood, my bones white and empty, with only my essence now animating them in their rigid pose. She touched me once again, and the bones crumbled to powder, blowing away in the wind, as if I’d never existed. I saw now only the dim outline of myself, a slight shimmer or shadow standing cold and naked on the empty street. I implored her, “Why?” She came to me, her eyes full of sadness and hope, her lips anxious but closed. “Why?” I asked again, noiselessly, the awe and fear echoing in her mind. “I love you…” she mouthed, and slipped slowly away from me. I followed her, as she beckoned the way. But the dream began to fade, and I felt consciousness struggling to intervene. I awoke the next moment, covered in a fine patina of sweat, staring up at the dark ceiling, remembering her face, her touch…
I’ll never forget that dream, the dream of a lover yet to be.