Dreamer
- 2 years ago
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The Little Dreamer free porn video
On cool, cotton sheets, she sleeps alone. Her pale form in foetal position, her long, raven hair splayed out on the pillows. No trace of the day’s trials and tribulations remain, only on the cotton wool in the waste paper basket. After a time she stirs in the silence of a spell. Then she breathes, but the cool, cotton sheets have given way to gardens, where roses breathe poems. She idly reflects over the sweet, sonnets of scent, as above her, the leaves swirl like green hearts in the gentle summer breeze. The sun’s caresses inflame her bare skin, but the cruel breeze sighs: “Is it enough?” As her eyes drop to the shimmering reflections on the pond in the lawn, she mouths the words to herself.
She remembers the other world, of cotton wool and cotton sheets. She remembers kitchen sinks and daily papers and dodging the landlord. She remembers being shown the kitchen, and the bitterness of coffee. Even now, she wears a crown of a grin at the thought of his peculiar way of buttering toast, the way he said she was his muse. Then she spots someone, drowsing in the shade of a willow on the other side of the pond. He has lost weight, she notices, but, then again, her hair had been four more colours since she had last seen him.
She wants to call out to him, to make him aware of her presence. She knows, however, that he has his reasons to stay in the shade, just as she has her reasons to stay in the sun. And as the sun’s caresses inflame her bare skin, the cruel breeze sighs: “It isn’t enough.” She tries to sum up her feelings. In the last seven years, a lot has changed. One thing remains the same. In her past romances, once around the sun has usually been enough to get over a lover. But seven years. Maybe, she ruminates, this is why she stays in the sun, to be reminded of the passing time. Perhaps this is the reason why he stays in the shade. People have to deal with things in their own way.
In the other world, when they had gone their separate ways, he had told she would always have a part of him. She had often wondered what he had really meant by this, aside from the trashy, airport novel connotations it could have so easily carried. Sometimes she felt as though she was under a spell of some making, and imagined him in his darkened cell, candles burning, at a makeshift altar carrying out the ritual that seemed to tattoo him on her heart. Sometimes she imagined that he had approached a casting agency and hired actors of his own age and bearing his resemblance. He would instruct these people to silently invade her life, as if extras in an art-house film by some contemporary director, as the fellow on the tube, the man who takes dog out Sundays, the guy in front of her in the bank, that waiter… She sometimes even imagined that what he had told her he believed was true, that they were soul mates. This idea occasionally amused her, as she fantasised about all their possible past lives together, but most of the time this notion gave her a strange feeling in her stomach. She didn’t like to think too hard about the reasons for this, because that made her head hurt.
Another thing he had told her, that she had laughed off flippantly at the time, but of which, now, she had no doubt, they had a connection. After seven years, of this, she had no doubt whatsoever. Back in the garden, where roses breathed poems, and leaves swirled like green hearts, she calls out to him. He answers with a glare, which is transformed by recognition into a beaming smile. He pulls himself up, up off his mossy makeshift bed and, walking around the pond in the lawn, steps, blinking, into the light. “I’ve seen your face in the strangest places…” He starts, as he ambles over to meet her, in the middle of the distance between them. As they embrace, he whispers, “…and when I do, I have to remind myself to breathe out, and breathe in.” He emphasises this by breathing her in deeply, buried in her long raven hair, as if binding their souls forever. Meanwhile the roses that breathe poems reflect, in their queer, poetic way, on how it was hard it was to tell where she stopped and he began. As the sun’s caresses inflame their bare skin, the cruel breeze sighs, because it doesn’t have anything else to say on the matter.
Suddenly, she is dragged back to the world of cotton wool and cotton sheets, kitchen sinks and daily papers, the bitterness of coffee and the fellow on the tube. The telephone is ringing. Dancing on the threshold of anticipation, she hesitantly picks up the receiver.
“Hello?”
A strange but familiar voice answers.
“Your dreams can’t come true,” he says, “until you wake up.”
Marisol
- 13.11.2022
- 8
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