By D Ross
Date: 1 February 2000

A weekend, a weekend

When they ask what I did this weekend, and I say that I spent it with you, they do not know (how could they?) that I spent it wrapped in your arms and legs, lost in your lips, helpless to leave.
How could they know that, dreaming, I reached for you in my sleep and, astonishingly, my hand found the curve of your hip there after all?
That morning did not bring wakefulness and caution in equal doses. That my dream was not washed away in broad daylight, but kissed me back, hard and full, no longer slumbering, no longer unreal, full of groggy morning and early promise. 
How could I explain that I spent hours roaming a deep and splendid forest, where I could taste you everywhere in the air and feel you through my feet in the earth? That I wandered there with no desire to know my way, but desperately wanting to find a path, some faint trail or long-forgotten signpost that would point me to the place where you wait, dressing gown slightly askew, for me to find you.