When I wake up, I can still feel the sensation of her in my dream, caressing my body like a warm blanket.

The pale pink of her lips, her big, doe eyes and her soft, soft hands as she sinks them in my hair, which changes like a shutter camera, short, black, then long and blue, then short, black again.

She opens her mouth to speak but I shush her, then yell at myself.

I haven't heard her voice in so long and even though her dream voice won't make up for it, I crave to hear it.

She's uncharacteristically playful. Her hands are everywhere, playing with my shutter-camera hair, teasing my waist as she rains kisses on my face then gently on my lips.

Something niggles my mind and I blurt out the first thing in my head.

"What would your husband say?"

She smiles sadly, her face slowly fading away.

"What would your dead boyfriend?"

I get up and cry.