I knew that he was back as I stared into his deep, blue eyes in the life size painting leaning against my wall.  I didn’t realize then, though, that the feeling I had in my gut…  the feeling like butterflies, and chocolate covered cherries, and every wonderful thing…  I didn’t realize then, but now I do recall, that somehow I knew that he was back.
 My eyes ran over the drying paint that was his face, until they landed on his full constantly pouting lips.  I lingered there, longing to kiss them.  Entranced, I leaned forward to do just that.  I closed my eyes and as I moved to graze the painting with my lips, I was suddenly shocked back to the real world by a stunning clap of thunder.
 Eyelashes fluttering, heart racing, I asked myself what in the world I thought I was doing.  I was really losing my mind this time.  I was becoming absolutely desperate…  reaching out to a painting!
 Another clap of thunder followed by a flash of lightning sent my studio apartment into pitch-blackness.  I felt utterly cold and alone in the dark but thankfully, seconds later the lights flashed back on, my alarm blinking “twelve-o’clock” over and over in red.   I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, leaning back against my antique mahogany dresser.  Calm again, I crossed my arms and once more began to scrutinize my latest work of art.  It bewildered me each time I beheld it.  I could hardly believe that it was really I who had depicted James Dean as he was in this likeness before me.  The face (the person) that had lingered in my mind (and in my dreams) for the last few years of my life now stood life-size on canvas against a plain black backdrop.  He seemed to stare back at me with an unwavering gaze, as if he knew all of my deepest hopes.  I felt that it was as if a muse had truly guided my paintbrush in my hand, and I whispered a “thank you” into the air.  I had never seen James Dean portrayed more vividly in any other picture.  Even of the photographs I had seen of him, there had seemed to be something missing.  I felt as though I had actually captured a piece of his soul in my art, blended with parts of my own.
 I sighed, wishing to knock the senseless fantasies from my mind.  I tried as hard as possible, but to no avail.  I was overcome by dreams of him.  I stood up, two feet from the canvas.  I reached my hand our slowly, lost in thought and unreality.  I lightly brushed the painting with my fingertips, closed my eyes, and imagined spinning my fingers through he wavy, brown hair.  Suddenly, I gasped and pulled my hand away; for, at the last few moments, I could actually feel his soft hair between my fingers.
 I opened my eyes, and he was there.  James Dean stood before me, a blank canvas behind him.  He was more incredibly breath taking than anyone else could have been.  More so than anyone or anything an artist could paint.
 “You aren’t real,” I told him.
 He gazed at me with laughter in the eyes that had always seemed so forlorn.  “You needed me so badly that I am real… now.”
 I closed my eyes for a moment and whispered, “I’m dreaming.  Oh, but I hope that I never wake up.”
  But as I looked at him, this fantasy seemed no longer only a dream.  I saw the pleading in his eyes and knew that he only wanted me to believe.  I shook my head sadly, wishing that this could be true.
 “The world you live in today has torn away the faith we used to have in dreams and miracles,” James said, as if reading my mind.
 “I know,” I whispered, tears cornering my eyes, “and I’m so sorry.”
 “Only kiss me then, before I must leave,” he pleaded.
 I closed my eyes again and let myself fall into the embrace of the only one I had ever let myself love.  He was so easy to love.  Our lips met in the most exquisite kiss I had ever felt (more so, even, than in my dreams of him.)  I sighed from deep within and melted in his arms.  In an abyss of ecstasy, I wished that this would never end, but too soon it was over and we drew back from each other.  His lips brushed my cheek and lingered there until he was again no more than a painting on my wall.