Thin Line

There's a thin line between lust and love, I thought to myself as I wiped the crust from my eyes and rolled over to stare at the alarm clock, bleeping and blaring into the silent morning. In my dream, you were there, you, the unattainable. Asking me, begging me for comfort, contact. I brushed my hand along your arm lightly, a small gesture to comfort you, connect with your suffering in a difficult moment. Your neck snapped towards me, your soft brown eyes slowly searching mine for meaning. I slid my arm around your shoulder and pulled you close to me - just an embrace, nothing more. We held fast, frozen. For the first time in a long time I felt your shape, the curvature of your shoulder blade and the slight softness with lean muscle beneath. Our faces slid together and I felt your breath on my neck, the roughness of your five o'clock shadow scraped lightly against my cheek. I was held as much as holding, feeling every tiny motion of your limbs. The feeling in my heart, my stomach, the firing synapses of my brain, was so intense I nearly choked on it and it sent shivers through my bones. Love, pure and unadulterated. Or so I thought, for as it broke over me like a shimmering wave, I desired a culmination, a completeness of our expression. Then I stood there and looked at the shoreline, the thin line between love and lust. I decided to stay on the sand, but I relished every wave until the tide receded and we separated at long last. I woke. I laid in the bed, contemplating the meaning of our dreamtime rendezvous. I snuggled under the covers, warm with sleep, and contemplated the decision made by my dream-self to be true to the real me, not to the dreamer who had you in her arms.