In a world where hearts no longer beat for love, where feelings are transactional, and emotions are fleeting, false...

I dream of love, of being cherished, of being honored. He finds me in the midst of a storm, catches me against his warmth, against his solidness, his lips brush my ear as he breathes the words I both dread, and yearn for.

I turn. Face him. My heart still. Waiting. Disbelieving. Another lie. Always a lie.

His eyes tell me he means it. His kiss sears my soul. This. This is real. This is what love feels like. I memorize it. The feeling, the breadth and depth of it. The enormity of the honesty of two souls colliding, vulnerable, bleeding with trust.

I know it is a dream, but I hold on for as long as I can.

To savor the feeling, the bond, the oneness of being loved. Of being held. Of my thin, dying body not being hated, reviled, rejected. But made sacred. Fragile. Precious.

Of not being Compared. Found wanting. I am not her, the woman du jour of Instagram. The cover girl on a men's magazine. I am me. Tiny. A slip of a thing. Wasting away. Soon now it will be over.

I wake. I touch my lips. All is silence, except the storm in my heart; the ache in my soul.

And I know...

It shall never come again. This kind of love. Not in this world. Not for me.

And so I close my eyes, and dream of love, of a life denied.

And weep.