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I lay there, on his chest, sick and wheezing – somewhere between sleep and dreaming. And I pondered how it was possible to feel so ill, so congested and sore, but yet still so content.How waking up in the middle of the night – jarred by some medicine-induced schizoid-dream – to find a body there, in slumber, with his arm still around me. And I wondered if my racing heart remained from the un-calming of my dream, or the sudden realization that I’m falling fast into something I realize I might be happy to get used to again. And better, it seems. The flutter of my heart wasn’t a nightmare’s affect – in this limbo – no, it was him. And everything that meant to me in that moment - for my wishes, he was there. In my bed, in his arms – my head on his chest with the beating of his heart, mine fluttered. And the nightmares never existed. It was really quite perfect - you know, even with all the soreness and congestion. I realized what it meant somewhere near 0103120300. And I smiled and fell back into dreaming; his heart still singing softly in my ear.