My own alone:
Our sands, and you come up out of the water gasping. I would like to say sword in hand, but in my dream your hands are empty. You look at me as if to ask something, but I shake my head and merely pull you over me and down, your head between my thighs. Only after my cries have met the wind do I permit you to consider your own relief. You lift me up and then press me against a bank of rocks; I feel the disparity in our heights.
I wonder how long these dreams will come. I think of them as a test of my will, just now. I would gladly move forward with you but I will not be pulled back into despair or expectation. And if they are erotic, well, it suits us both and our past, does it not.