I dream about her every night. We were only together for a little while, and it was fine and fun and comfortable, and then I screamed at her for not spending enough time with me. Soon her disinterest caught up and she called the whole thing off.
The first dream I remember little of-- she came into my sleep world after a dream about another girl, a girl I had persued and given up on. I dreamed I was making love with that girl, and I remember the feeling of the girl's small, hard nipples in my mouth. Then I dreamed of her. We were just friends somewhere, doing the same sorts of things we ever did as friends.
In the next dream she was crying. I remember how she cried, and her tears fell like diamond bullets down her cheek, and how beautiful she seemed. She is beautiful, in a quiet sort of way. Every time I see her I want to take her close to me and make her understand how beautiful she is and how I want her so.
When I dream her it is just like seeing her. Just like I saw her tonight. Sitting on my bed, talking about nothing, and me wanting to kiss her and hold her tight and give her some sort of sublime happiness that seems impossible to find and impossible to give. I want to teach her her beauty.
I think that is why I think she is so precious: the fact that she is ignorant of her beauty. That is the most beautiful thing about her. If she were proud, she would seem like a plain, stout little girl, blundering about a world which she does not bother to understand. But she is quiet, and does not know she is beautiful.
-Omar, the tentmaker
back. . .