Un.

Sometimes, in the quiet of night, I stand at the foot of my bed and stare at the indent of my body, and pretend to see you there. The way the light from the 'candlestick' in my window hits your bare skin causes me to stare. I frown slightly, dying to reach out and touch you. Absolutly dying to comb my fingers through your hair. But as soon as I do, you vanish into thin air. Smoke. A mirage of an oasis in the desert. Well, damn.

Some days, I hate my over active imagination.