I seek his phantom warmth that seems to burn me in my dreams. I wake up to reach over to him, to feel him, to know him. Ironically it is my consciousness that drives him away. His weight is gone. His roughness is gone. His gentleness is gone. All that is left is what was always there. Me. Because he was never there. And I may not ever find him there. Even if he was there. Because I don't know him. I know his touch. I know his eyes. I know his lips. I know him. But not him. I would not recognise the colour of his eyes unless maybe if I saw the shape of them when he really saw me. I would not recognise his voice but only the oxymoron of my rough gentle lips against the back of my hand and shoulder. I yearn for the day that I will. Until then, I shall live with these phantom scars that he has already inflicted on me.