i'm not in love with anyone. i'm in love with my dreams: the pressure of someone's chest against my back, an idealized version of the other half of a kiss, leaving for the other side of the world in a matter of days. i make myself shudder to scraps of memory cum fantasy, a stroke of the cheek, his hand on my waist, imagining him looking up at me from between my thighs. it's not him, though; it's not anyone. it's the idea of someone.