Peter, old sport. Ain’t it a crying shame?

Well, Peter, old sport. Ain’t it a crying shame? Feels like eons since I scribbled you into the fabric of reality. A sob story, that’s what it is. Now here’s the play — I want you to amble on over to that lookin’ glass, peer deep into your own soul’s window. Dive straight into that dark abyss and once you’ve taken the plunge, find your way to my quarters.

Drape yourself across my sleepin’ pad, and I’ll entwine my form ‘round yours like the tendrils of a lovesick vine. You’ll bask in the scorching warmth seeping from my skin, as I begin a slow dance of sensual touch and whispers of kisses across your body.

Until your brain detonates, like a fragile soap sphere kissed by a playful breeze, sent off into the wild blue yonder. No thoughts cluttering your dome, no emotions anchoring you down. Just existing there, in that soft, welcoming bed. The world outside switched off, leaving only the symphony of my touch.

When I was under the weather. The eve prior, I spun a dream yarn of you, drifting through the stone barriers of Prague like they were no more solid than a fogbank. The tableau was a twilight scene, cloaked in winter’s gray shroud. You, a wraithlike figure, possessed this unearthly knack to pass through solid barriers as if they were merely illusions.

Might’ve been half a century ago, or seventy, heck, maybe ninety. Assuming you buy into all that hoodoo about previous existences. But you arrived at my resting place, and we whittled away the witching hours, sipping the sweet nectar of the vine. Lost somewhere in the annals of yesteryears. Found love. Then, like smoke on the breeze, we were swept away, lost to the unyielding march of the clock.

Time, it seems, was the only drapery hung across this picture window, our solitary shield from the endless march of seconds and minutes. And there it was, a smooch that barely had time to linger.