“Promise me…”

“Shh now, baby. You don’t have to ask that.”

Her voice is soft but pleading, her hands supple but assured. She traces out love letters that would put Shakespeare to shame across my burning flesh. The moon outside looks down in abject envy.

“Promise me this isn’t just a dream.”

I see the heartbreak in her verdunt eyes for a fraction of a second before I hear the gruff, familiar voice, “…wad, yer talkin in yer sleep again.” The world of love fades in wafts of lavender being washed away by the musky stench of manliness.

“Hrmm, yeah, sorry Murph.”

A heady silence, as full of muffled breathing as it was devoid of hope, takes hold of my heart and coldly burned into it my own impurities. The same moon casts silvery beams of condescention upon me through barred windows.

“You an yer dreams, Chuck-up.”

“She was there, Murph, right there.”

“An I had the Packers cheerleaders right there last night, but you don’t see me romanticisin’ my pervy dreams.”

“Not the same, Murph. She’s real.”