With every breathe

I wish I were nothing more than adequate.

You wake me up and my first reaction is to press myself against you like a starving thing. To tilt my hips on yours and let you know wordlessly what I want. What I need. My skin is soft and warm from sleep but I'm burning inside, smoldering. You hug me from behind, breathing that way I like to hear, and find me wet and ready, eager, exasperated. I'm sparking, I'm powder and I'm begging for you to be a match. Then you're inside and everything feels right. Then you start moving and my mind goes point blank. I move too, and we can hear our breaths. You press your weight on me, letting me absorb the impact, burying me in the bedsheets but not stopping. Don't you dare stop.

I wonder if the death of an author implies that all the dreams of their characters die as well.