Dreaming

I had a dream about you last night,

               are you all right with that?

Does it frighten you?

I once told you that I only ever really dreamt when I thought I was in love.

And while I don’t love you,

I don’t think I love you,

I don’t want to love you

I’ve been dreaming more.

And I think it is because I like you, and that I allow myself to like you.

Is that silly?

But I do, I do like you, and I would love it if you liked me

But what I’m trying to say, so desperately wanting to let you know, is that I don’t know how to play this game very well and all of this is so new to me.

So please forgive me if I mess up,

Because I don’t want to ruin or prevent anything from ‘happening’ with you.

Okay?

 

INT. DREAM. LAST NIGHT/THIS MORNING

You and I were roadtripping to Alabama to visit the town I grew up in and my family (though if they made an appearance, I forgot about it). And it was summer, and it was cool and nice, and the skies were lower to us than in here in Chicago. And we drove with the windows down, and it was nice.

You pull into the driveway to my home, and I excitedly pull you out of your seat.

The scene jumpcuts to inside of my childhood home, and all of my precious dogs are there. Mia, with her blonde hair that shines from the summer sun’s glow; Sami, with her petite and cute long haired frame; and Lucy, simply my baby. I introduce you to my girls and I fall to the floor to embrace them all (yeah, I miss my dogs, okay?). You go into the kitchen (because, obviously you would only know the layout to my home in a dream) and when you walk back to me, I am on my knees. You stop near me, your left leg next to me.

And I am overwhelmed with happiness and contentedness and peace and all of these feelings associated with love. Words wouldn’t do, could never do, and so to express my adoration, I hug you tightly around the waist, the fabric of your jeans rubbing my face.

And it felt so real.

You help me stand and I embrace you properly, your height causing your chin to touch the temples of my head.

And it felt so fucking real.

JUMPCUT, couch. And you think it’s cute that I treat my dogs like lap dogs. And I think it’s cute that my darling companions like you, even though they usually don’t like meeting men or any friends of mine.  We end the scene by cuddling on the couch, my head resting on your shoulder.

EXT. 

When I woke up,

I cursed life.

I cursed living and having to wake up away from the dream world.

Because why on earth would I want to face this reality when I have dreams like that?

 

And whilst I truly love dreams like this,

I hate them as well because they make me unhappy and hollow.

A Letter to You

I miss you like mad, do you know that?

I want to spend almost all of my time with you, near you. We don’t even have to do anything, do you know that? I’ll be content with just sitting beside you and editing on my laptop and you watching television or something.

I want to be alone together with you.

I want to sleep beside you, hold you, hug you,

I want to turn these pillows into you, instead of just having to dream about you.

 

I want to help you, to watch out for you, to make you never feel alone again.

 

Anyone

You hope while you still can–

You pretend, when the hope has disappeared.

      And when the hope is lost,

      when pretending to hope means to trade in your life for a life stuck behind a table, with the vain attempt to catalyse these thoughts into something else.

      When playing the part becomes your life,

                       you hope that someone will save you.

Out of the many bodies you have helped,

             consoled

out of them one will notice you.

   Cracked,

   alone,

   defeated.

Just one, that’s all it takes.

Anybody could be your

somebody.

Poetry

You call it poetry.

You hope it’s poetry.

You pretend that it’s poetry

because these thoughts,

these thoughts that

swarm your head

invade your soul

they were meant for a life on their own.

Wrought on paper,

                     stone,

                      skin,

            tree trunks

to live a life outside of your own;

out of your cells and vessels and into something tangible.

 

Dying

‘What are you doing?’

I continue to stare out of the window, what am I doing? A lot of things, I s’pose: blinking, thinking, little tiny pieces of me are carrying bubbles of oxygen to other little tiny pieces of me. I’m orchestrating all of this but I’ve never owned a baton.

‘What’re you doing?’ The voice comes from behind, but I continue to look forward.

‘Dying,’ I respond, rubbing the chin off of my face with my left hand. My right is left on its own.

‘Dying?’ the voice asks.

‘Yeah.’ I answer back, finally.

‘Yeah?’ it mimics me.

‘It’s a good day for dying,’ I reply, finally.

‘Indeed,’ the voice answers, finally. ‘It is a good day.’