You dream in brilliant colors.
You dream of clear cerulean skies and green, lime green grass that looks so soft. Fluorescent monarchs flutter by the flowers, through the grass, towards the horizon. And he stands there, smiling at you, beckoning for you, in the middle of the meadow. You dream of him. Always of him.
Sun-bronzed and as perfect as any statue of any god that you've ever seen. He blushes. Lowers those indigo eyes, gazes at you through those long, blue-black eyelashes. Doesn't speak. He smiles, flashes those almost perfect teeth at you. You go to him, pull his head into your chest. You let your cheek rest on his sun-warmed hair. He lets his hands rest at the small of your back.

You wake. The dream fixes itself in your mind and your eyes fix themselves upon the figure lying under the crumpled sheets beside you. His arm is wrapped around the pillow; his cheek is flat on the mattress. Soft snoring comes from behind his slightly parted pink lips. One black curl has fallen across his forehead and sticks to the slightly sweaty skin. Bright red blotches underlay the brown freckles that are scattered across the apples of his cheeks. He's so young.
His eyelids flutter in a half-dreamless sleep. He's almost awake. You pull yourself into a sitting position, scrub your fingers across your scalp, pull your eyes away from his face. Look at the floor, look at the ceiling, look at something. A soft, high sound escapes from his throat. The pillow tumbles to the floor as he shifts onto his side. The flat sheet tangles around his leg. Just don't look at him.
You slide out from under the covers and let your feet fall to the floor. The cold hardwood pulls you even further into consciousness. You stand. The air conditioning clicks on; cool air envelops you, ruffles the very fine hairs on your skin. You shiver. You almost climb back into the bed. The half sigh comes from his direction again. You don't.
You drag across the room to the blinds. A few soft blue rays of light spill through the slits. You squint. It's still light out there. Six, maybe seven o'clock. He shifts.
You twist your neck to check the time. The clock on the wall says that it's seven forty nine. He sighs.
His parents will be looking for him soon. He lays still.
You turn, put your back to the window, lean against the blinds. Block the last of the light that's coming from the window. His parents will be looking for him soon. You pinch the sides of your nose with your fingertips. You shouldn't have let him in. your eyes scan across the room. You glance at the clock. Seven fifty one. Your clothes and his are still lying in that crumpled pile that you nearly tipped over when the two of you made your way to the bed. You see him out of the corner of your eye. He pulls the flat sheet up to his throat. Swallows audibly. You let out a breath. He shifts and the blue-black comforter tumbles to the ground. You let your eyes make their way up his leg, over his torso, to his face. He's so young.
Mouth half open and pink lips slightly wet. He's snoring again. His arm, tucked beneath his head, pushes his rosy cheek up to meet the black brush of his eyelashes. He looks like a little kid when he's asleep. That was a thought that you absolutely did not need to be having right now. He pulls his arm out from under his cheek, lets his hand slide down over his ribs as his head lowers to the mattress. He murmurs something that sounds remotely like your name and then he's asleep again. The flat sheet has inched its way down. It's tangled around his legs, leaving his chest, his stomach, and the thick line of black hair that runs down past his navel exposed. The muted blue daylight lingers on his skin. You squeeze your eyes shut. Push closer towards the blinds. The thin metal ridges dig into your back and white-green spots flash in the darkness behind your eyelids.

Your skin is so pale that it's almost translucent, barely blue. His skin is copper or maybe bronze or maybe both and when he comes to you, when he touches you, his skin is warm and sort of glows. The glow spreads across the lime green grass in the meadow. You always remember your dreams, but you'd probably be better off if you couldn't.

You peel your back from off of the blinds and pry your fingers off of the windowsill. You hadn't even noticed that you'd been holding on to it. You open your eyes. You look for the clock again. Seven fifty nine. You should wake him up now. His parents will be looking for him soon. That lock of hair is still plastered to his forehead. You start back towards the bed. You start to reach out and brush the hair away from his face. You don't. You press your back against the blinds again. Clamp your hands down to your sides. His eyelids are still fluttering.
He's just a kid.
His mouth is still wet.
It's just sex. Just two people connecting and exploring each other and all that other bullshit they taught you in some freshman psychology class eons ago. It's just sex and you don't have to get your emotions all tied up in it to have it. You have to know that by now. He shifts.
But it is more than that, isn't it? And it's too late for your emotions, too. You spend every last one of your nights dreaming about a fifteen-year-old kid. You spend most of your afternoons trying to get to him. Be with him. God, what does that mean? What does that make you? Several words spring to the tip of your tongue and you bite them back nearly as quickly as they come up. You are-- you could be-- genuinely in love with a fifteen-year-old kid. You really don't know how you let this happen. You turn, face the blinds, let your eyes adjust to the blue-orange light that's slipping through the slits and peer outside, looking at nothing in particular. Just as the orange in the sky has started to fade a bit, you feel a pair of arms slip around your waist. He presses one hand to your stomach, the other to the muscle and bone that covers your heart. He touches his mouth to a few of the ridges that the blinds left in your skin, nuzzles against the back of your neck. Maybe, you think, maybe that's how. He kissed you first, that very first time in the hayloft, but you kissed him back. You didn't shove him away from you, didn't tell him that he was confused. He kissed you first but you kissed him back. All things considered, neither one is more important than the other. You didn't even let shock get through to you as you felt his hands slip towards the waistline of your trousers. Maybe he's not as innocent as your mind makes him out to be. That doesn't excuse any of the things that you've done. Your conscience should have stopped you before. He kisses your neck, plants the one hand over your heart, and lets the other trace the very fine line of very fine hair that runs down past your navel. Your conscience is back now, though, and its voice is louder than it has ever been. You twist around in his arms, stare at the freckles that cover his cheeks. He's only a little bit taller than he was when you met him. Only a little bit taller than you. You look up into his eyes, see the little smile that's forming behind them. He runs his hand up your back, lets his fingertips alight on each individual vertebrae. You lower your eyelids slowly, reach behind you, and take his wrists in your hands. "It's time to go home," you say.
Your eyes are still closed. You swallow audibly, squeeze his wrists a little, and then open them and stare at the freckles again. Don't look him in the eyes.
"It's time to go home," you repeat. Your voice is wavering, just a little, this time. You close your eyes again. You don't love him. It's just sex. "I want to stay here with you," he says. He's close enough to kiss. Don't look him in the eyes.
"I know you do," you hear yourself say. You sound a lot older than you did just a few minutes ago. "But you can't. You know you can't." Your voice is definitely wavering this time. You wonder if he can tell. You wonder how you let things get this far. "I could call them and tell them I'm staying with a friend. That's not a lie. I could go back in the morning and they'd never know." He pulls his wrists free from your hands. You don't put up much of a struggle. "I just want to stay here with you." You close your eyes. Bow your head. "Things will be better soon. We won't have to hide or anything because we can make people understand. I love you and you love me and that's it. They'll have to understand." He has your wrists in his hands now. Kisses your fists and kisses your forehead, even though you still haven't looked up. Wonder which little girl he learned those tricks from. "I don't think it works that way." You really do sound about a hundred years old now. "Well, it'll have to for now though, won't it? 'Cause I'm not leaving you. This right here?" He runs his hand, gently, over your hair. It hurts. "This is forever." You let out a breath. It hurts.
He sounds very, very young.
"Just come on. Please. I want to stay. I haven't even seen you in, like, a week." You lift your head and look directly at him because it seems like you have to. You see the smile that's waiting behind his eyes. That hurts too.
"I know."
Your eyes go back to him and he is smiling now. Head bowed, gazing at you through those long, blue-black eyelashes. Flashing those almost perfect teeth. He had to have learned that from someone. Your hand finds its way to the side of his face. He blinks slowly, the smile broadens. The last of the light that's coming in through the blinds paints his face orange and pink and blue. The red blotches under the freckles are gone. He doesn't even blush anymore. You don't know when he stopped. You don't know when you started. It's eight o' four. His parents will be looking for him soon. Maybe you could keep him for a little while longer. You run your fingers across the freckles and feel your resistance falling away. "I love you," you say, though there could be a better word for it. "I know," he says, and he presses his mouth against your palm. "I love you too." Maybe that hurts the most.

He leaves sometime after ten. He presses a kiss between your shoulder blades and you feel the mattress shift and then he is gone. You pretend to be asleep as he's leaving. You sit up and look around in the blue darkness after he's gone. The air conditioning clicks on and suddenly it's too cold and too dark and you feel awfully alone and awfully stupid. He's just a kid. He still doesn't exactly know how to kiss and he gets caught in too many lies and you're obsessing over a kid. That's not very smart of you. Now he's gone and you can think a little more clearly. Maybe you could keep him for a little while longer, but you know that you'll have to give him up soon. He gets to you. That could be dangerous. Your resistance starts to build itself up again. You lie down, pull the comforter to your throat, and stare up at the ceiling, waiting for sleep. Maybe you could keep him for a little while longer. You know that it won't be long enough. You squeeze your eyes shut and white-green spots flash behind your eyelids. Sleep will come soon. And even if you can't keep him for long, even if he stops kissing you before he ever really learns how, you know that you'll always have him in your dreams.