It has been quite some time.
Quite some time since she visited my dreams.
But since then, I keep having the same familiar flashes of sensation.
Memories of her.
Her fascinating intonation.
The smell of her clothing.
The taste of Irish whiskey.
The character of her smile.
Her face, contorted with pleasure.
Half-filled wine glasses left abandoned on the nightstand.
I know that my memories are only half true.
Worn down by time like so many stones in some turbulent river.
But they are no less my memories.
My construction of her.
And what she was to me.
I just wish that the timing had been better.