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Sleeping next to me is a book. A book of stories written by other people. I read a passage before I put it to rest next to me. These stories, for all their merits, are not the ones I crave to have sleeping next to me.

I want your stories, your gentle breathing, and your comforting body sleeping next to me. I close my eyes and imagine the sound of your hushed breathing. Stories, albeit fantasies, enter my head…

I touch you, sliding my hand over your curves, feeling cloth turn to skin. My heart rushes wanting more of what my hand can deliver. More fantasies form in my head.

I feel your body pressing against me, soothing me to sleep, and allowing my mind to wander without thought into dreams. I am calm as I nestle into you. I never want the sensations to end.

I smile knowing that you are with me and we will make more stories. More adventures lie before us. They should outnumber the ones we've had.

Those are the stories that I want lying next to me. The ones we've made and the ones yet to write. But that is not what you want. You pushed me away. No more to write. No more stories to tell.

Numbness starts to take over, my eyes close for the last time. My nerves are calm and my pain is gone. My mother comes into the room and I hear her wail “Noooooo!” It’s too late. It worked. I’m gone…….


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