As I lay reading works of the late Anaïs Nin, I feel his warm breath against my bare white shoulder. His touch, electrifying, succumbs my knees to a melted state. My lover, his illuminating beauty in the dead of night, reduces my mind to mush. I forget what I am, who I am, what I love, and what I breathe.

When he caresses my breasts, I want to scream: “April, I dreamed you, the life you have, that feminine allure, your gentleness, that indescribable beauty – you are perfect. And because of this, you have drowned me and released a little green monster in my wake, forever more to haunt these silken sheets.”

I want to be you. I want to feel what you feel in the early mornings, when caressed by him. I want to live a life with your teetering unsureness, your selfish intellect, for I am addicted.

I want to feel comfort, and to feel solace, but my world is crumbling, spiriling downwards at a quicken pace. I don’t know how much more I can take, knowing this fantasy, this madness – is only temporary.