Something I Wrote Listening to "Good People," for Whatever Reason.

___In my dreams, it’s all so perfect. The night is quiet but for the sound of the waves lapping the shore, the sand still warm under our feet from the sun that has long dipped below the horizon. A warm summer breeze causes her flowing skirt to billow; she looks like an angel as she wraps her arms tenderly around me, delicate hands gently tracing the line of my back. Her beautiful brown eyes catch the moonlight, her perfect dark hair hangs soft and loose to frame her face. She tilts her head upwards, yearning, and I lean down to kiss her. My dreadlocks hang in dark a curtain around our faces as we meet, blocking out the world so that only we exist. Only this, only this kiss.
___My hands find her tiny waist, resting on the sculpted yet soft curves of her body. With Jack Johnson’s peaceful melodies drifting in the background, we dance barefoot on the sand, bodies intertwined, tongues dancing on one another’s lips. She rubs her smooth dark cheek across the stubble of my own, standing on the tips of her toes to whisper in my ear: “I love you.”
___And then the sun wretches upon me. My eyelids flutter open, and I find myself alone in my apartment. The morning is gray, droplets of condensation clinging to my window as the cold November rain soaks the earth. Laying naked in the tangle of my sheets, I’m holding on to the memory of something that never was. And I weep.