If I try-- if I really try for it, I can feel memories that aren't mine trickle in like water in a sieve. I can picture myself, lined with age and moments lived alongside you. It feels rote; practiced when I tell myself it isn't real. Again, and again, when my hands clasp around empty, cold sheets and I can nearly feel your warm fingers slotted between mine. It's pathetic, and placating to have your own conscious drag you to the shore when you wish to just drift away. I long to slip beneath-- drown in the feeling, in the current of your devotion and torrent of your touches. I want to exist in that big wooden-boned home, with dark oak furniture worn from love, something bathed in warmth that bellies the torment boom boom booming in my chest and crack crack splitting through my bones. I can feel me, ten years older, being cherished by you if I let myself sink.