fifteen minutes; three minutes

The sheets smell like the smoothest skin I've ever felt on a man; ever held onto, breathed in, nipped at, on a lover.

Point is, man, I'm the only one who's ever slept in the bed I sleep in now. The only tumbling these sheets have seen has been the result of my most active dreams and my most vivid nightmares, and my restlessness--and mine alone.

How can I smell him here when I've only ever drank in his scent in his bed?

I don't want it. I have this feeling that sometimes my subconcious recalls a memory that I once thought pleasant, and doesn't edit it into my dream sequences until much later in time. Late edits--I dreamt that he gave me a peck on the lips. He, of the glorious fling, the knowledgable casual lover--the one I used to want--the one I know I'll never want again. I honestly don't know where half my mind goes, and why it goes there.

I'm wishing for weirder things.