The first time I ever felt love was in a dream. He was faceless, just a shapely body moulded out of a mass of human flesh, and a constant darkness glowed around him; perhaps to show that he had no identity. The dream began where it always begins: In the middle, and we were walking hand-in-hand down a long stretch of road lined with pine trees, guided by the orange glow of street lamps. Stars shone, scattered overhead, like a paintbrush had been dipped in thick white paint and flung across a midnight canvas.
We stopped at the end of the road, before a line that separated the city from the woods, a backdrop of fluorescent lights glittered behind us as he turned towards me. His face was a black hole of nothingness, but I wasn’t afraid, because the love we shared showed me that the physical world was so small in comparison to that of which we cannot touch. He moved closer and we hugged; I was enveloped in a blanket of every wonder I have ever known. And when we pulled apart, I awoke, still feeling his arms around me. The projection of that faceless lover felt so real, the love I had for him still lingered when I lay in bed, recalling. I was longing for him to come back, so I could feel love, even if it was just in a dream.