Someone on the street. Not necessarily someone you know. Not necessarily human. He may not be real, but who is, after all?
Think of him. Imagine he has lovely hands, strong hands. He touches you; he plays with your hair, but never with your heart. But you know he will.
His eyes are dreamy. He looks at you like you are pretty, like you are his goddess and he will never leave. But you know he will.
Think of him when your face hurts after you’ve been smiling all day. Call him when you want to be alone; he will listen to you breathe and will whisper “I’m here.” But you know he won’t be.
He will be a whisper himself, hiding like a shadow under the bed, wearing your clothes, caressing your skin.
I made him up, so I don’t have to be alone in times of despair. I know how to be unhappy, I’m afraid of the sunrise. When the water is colder, you swim better; and your sheets smell of wonders and cheap cologne.
I made him up so I could forget him. I could never burn in the sun.
M. Stefanova, 2013