That was my Spirit.

I am notorious for my dreams.
I suppose they are partially my fault -
the fact that my dreams are,
well,
scantily clad.

Humans satisfy flesh.
I do follow God.
But I also know,
for the time being,
I am human.

Our subconscious,
in terms of Freud,
is quite primal.
Quite crude.
Quite... grimy.

So I do not blame myself,
entirely, for my dreams.
The substance of my dreams, rather.
But I know it is my nature speaking.
And I know I don't suppress it.

But when I dreamed of
love last night,
when my dream
consisted of my tender
spirit -

not my fleshly spirit,
not the animal that seeks
reproduction
and
satisfaction -

no, when I dreamed of love
last night, I was surprised.
When I dreamed that I laid
my head on his shoulder,
I know it was not primal.

When I could feel his breathing,
the small feeling of breathing,
when I could feel his heat on my
cheek, through the pillow that rested
on his shoulder...

...that was my spirit.
That was not my animal.
That was my heart speaking
not my primal nature.
That was my spirit.