Lucid Dreams...I Love You
He was sick. Again. Since moving from the countryside to Dublin in search of work, Lucas had been sick more often than not. Not having enough to eat didn’t help either.Â
Laying on the straw pallet he called a bed, his clothes sticking to him with cold sweat from fever, he saw her. She didn’t always visit, but he always prayed she would. So beautiful, like a goddess. A Queen, perhaps. Even in illness did he desire her, and many was the morning after her visits that he’d wake up aching or with remnants of his dreams on his breeches.Â
He was mumbling in French, in Gaelic, calling to her in his dreams. Where they were, he didn’t care. It was cool, it was near the ocean, and there was green and blue and brown and so beautiful.Â