Specific unmet needs

I trust my dreams in a way I don’t trust myself. In my head, I am a pathological liar. I know better. My dreams know better. It eschews pronouncements. And instead suggests a tone and other vagaries. The familiar hurt that doesn’t shake. Still hours next to you. Sleep finally dies. In the dark. Eyes closed, the feeling remains. I can hear your breath. I can feel your naked skin. They fail to reassure. “Your touch repulses me.” Only spoken in a dream sounds like something you might say. If you weren’t holding back. If you didn’t think this way is easier. And only temporary. You turn your back to me and lie flat on your stomach. “It’s how I like it.” But it’s not. That’s not how it ever was when it really was how you liked it. I wonder how you were two months ago. When you were looking for it. And how it would be if you didn’t still have specific unmet needs.