Nightmare

I wake into the dream somewhere in the middle of the night. The room is layered shadows from the light that creeps around the edges of the blackout curtain. She is sitting on the foot of the bed, cross legged, facing me. She is wearing khaki cargo shorts and a white top with spaghetti straps. Her hair is caught in a single french braid that she has pulled around front and draped over her left shoulder. Her face is masked in shadows. I cannot see her eyes, of the curve of her mouth, or the small scar on her chin. She leans forward and stretches out. With the index finger of her right hand she touches my ankle. A perfect touch. The place were metal is embedded in bone. It is as if she has speared me with a shaft of ice that runs up my leg, from ankle to hip, a blue fire so intense it goes instantly numb. I do not cry out. I draw a great ragged breath of air in preparation to scream. Drawing that breath wakes me from the dream. What is the nature of a muse? Sometimes she is the most gentle lover. Sometimes she is Nightmare. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T