Romantic Lucid Dream (The Series: III)

This is my third romantic lucid dream within the last three years.
It may have been Samuel again because, since the first time I had been with him, he had told me that I may see him again, but in a different body.
In the lucid dream that I have recently woken up from, I had been cleverly battling spirits and demons. I say "cleverly" because, since I knew that I would not die, I fought them with make-out attacks. That's right- I lunged at the demons, threatening to make out with them. It was working until one of the spirits had turned into a handsome man in mid-kiss. It had shocked me at first, but I decided to go along with it. I was in a lucid dream, after all.
I remember telling him that this was going to be short-lived, as dreams tend to be no longer than 5 minutes in the waking world. He understood, so he held me and kissed me softly. I asked him for a piece of gum because I did not feel confident about my breath. He smiled, and obliged with my request.
After what seemed like no time at all, I could feel myself crying in the dream. He asked me what was wrong. I told him that lucid dream lovers are always better than the ones in the conscious life. He sighed and smiled a little at me.
I could feel myself starting to slip away, as he held me in his arms, like I was dying within them. Looking up into his eyes, I whispered it again "Lucid dream lovers are always better than the ones in the conscious life."
I woke up, and I was alone again.

Kiddo is a Solo Act

Once in a while, I think it is such a shame that no one has swept me up from earth's terrain to be theirs. Since I was a child, I have dreamed of being abducted by an alien male, infatuated with my organic and bionic anatomy. I have even grown my hair out to the longest of pigtails. Not only that, the knobs of my irises have turned to the purest of jaded greens. I painted my pout a rosy pink, and lathered my skin in rich, luscious oils. A pre-adolescent voice calls out to the sky, screaming to be carried up steps to a UFO...especially when i gaze at monthly meteor showers.. Until then, my nimble fingers write, draw, illustrate, and paint.. i paint my dreams. I paint anything I want to...

Yours

Is it possible to miss someone I have never met? Well, goddamnit, of course it is.
Unspoken words caress your ears in dreams. My green eyes faintly sparkle in your imagination.
What color are your eyes?
If I were a photographer, I would capture your irises within milliseconds. As a painter, I would divulge each hue carefully with the softest acrylics.
Your fingertips are aggressive, yet delicate, gliding across this cybernetic terrain.
With every bite of my lip, my gears spin wildly. My system has been aching for a new, experienced technician.
For the procedure, please dress me in only combat boots, electrical tape, eyeliner, and pigtails. For you, please charm me in a black suit.
My eyes will remained closed until you awaken me..
Xx

Geminids

Weeping rain clouds flee the scene, and a cold breeze caresses the side of my face. Glittering particles soar through a brisk December night, and I am awestruck as I gaze upward, admiring the Geminids meteor shower. As each traveling star shoots through the dark sky, I gasp like a child seeing fireworks for the first time. Some of meteors are faint and speedy sparks, while others sail through as bright balls of fire, leaving trails of glowing space dust. The last one counted is the most brilliant of them all, triggering my imagination. Extraterrestrial beings seem to be signaling me to come back home.

South Taurids

Painter sweat pants, boots, flannel, snow jacket, and trooper hat- my gear for viewing the South Taurids meteor shower. As soon as I step outside, the very second I look upward, a meteor already greets me, shooting across the dark terrain above. Well, good evening there, #1. Perfectly enough, Explosions in The Sky makes melodies and rhythms in my ears, while I search for more traveling stars. Now, mind you, this is no Perseids shower, but I am in hopes of catching my fireball tonight. To my satisfaction, lo and behold, she is #6. Bold and beautiful, #6 glides a bit more slowly than the others, and much more brightly- she is my fireball. Gasping like a child in awe, my thoughts hone in on what my heart desires. The wish I make attaches itself to her, and she disappears into the night, with a promise it will come true. #7 makes me wait a long time for her, like the love you have been waiting for your whole life. She zips by, whispering good night, as I stand up to retreat to my warm headquarters. Thank you, South Taurids.
And good night, to the raccoon who scared the living bejeezus out of me.

Piano Keys for 337

Trudging through the deafening factory, my wirey, fragile framework awkwardly limps forward to my monotonous  station.  The grand hierarchy have bolted the heaviest of weights to my copper calves, in order to disable me from making an escape from the plant. My dexterous, quick hands provide value for their plot, and to lose me would mean a decline in productivity.
One of the clergy detected that my software developed a virus. I have learned how to feel.
With fear that I would call out to creature I feel for, the secretary general blacksmith sautered my silvery lips shut. The only audio heard from my system is the droning hum of my synthetic heart.
Also, unfortunately, my programmer confessed to the leaders that I have a telepathic messaging feature.
Instantly, the IT crew of the conglomeration placed fierce monitoring on my CPU.
At any moment, with any attempt to transmit a cyber message to anyone, an overpowering surge of electricity pierces me and causes my system to overheat. This forces a disconnection from contacting the one I pine for.
My vigilant guardian actually cares about me. She, Jezelle, senses a special spark within me.
Jezelle warns me that if I force too many messages, my system will become strained and my performance will decline. With that, the plant cannot use me anymore. ..and they will dispose of me, for good.
Glassy-eyed, and mute, I nod.
With that, I sense the monitors increasing their radar upon me, i think, "CUPCAKES!"
Their security calms down.
At the end of the day, Jezelle escorts me to my resting cell.
There, I have chalk, a bouncy, green ball, and an old, upright piano.
If tappy, chalky screeches are not heard, nor the ricochet of a rubber ball, a plinking of piano chords are harmoniously relished by other inmates.
The guards let me play it at night.
Piano keys fly and soar. Notes rocket to the skies.
Can he hear me I wonder..?
They are all for him.
The sad melodies. The happy, energetic ones, all of them.
Only way I can communicate with 337.
Traveling through my barred window, around willow trees, into puffy clouds, and gently floating to his ear.
If he truly can hear it, he will know it is me.

sounds and skin

cannot shake this fleet of snow, nor spark of sun.
harmonica and jaw harp ring in my ears.
your heart beats within me, like a shaking bass.
click, rumble, hum, brrring!
so many sounds..
but nothing compares to the silence i shared with you.
the only thing my ears heard was your fingertips gliding across my silky skin, and your soft breath on my rosy cheek.
my deep-set eyes shut to travel to this safe haven.
meet me there.