Sunday [The Recurring Nightmare...]

why does my heart still race a little when i dream of you?

why does the thought of you coming back, 

even only in my subconscious,

make me a little bit melancholy,

a little bit lonely?

even though in reality,

i don't want you back,

i wouldn't ever want you back....

and yet...

i don't know if i'd say no if you were to suggest it.

i'm not sure if that's just because i want someone to fill that spot,

or if, 

deep down, 

i wish it had worked out.

this morning i dreamt that you told me you loved me.

even in my dream state i thought to ask you,

what happened to the girl you were marrying?

you told me not to worry about her,

but i knew, deep down, that you were still together.

what am i meant to do about you?

it's been three years since i saw you last.

my entire life is different,

wonderful, 

and going in all the directions i always wanted it to go.

you absolutely destroyed me,

and it's taken me this long to get back on my feet.

there are still things i struggle with, but i know,

those too shall pass.

the thing that shatters me most is that i know you don't care.

the likelihood of my name or face ever crossing your mind,

well, 

i'm sure it doesn't happen.

i guess i take comfort in the fact that the you i dream of sometimes,

isn't you.

he has brown eyes, where yours are blue,

a dimple that doesn't exist on your face,

and the best smile i've ever seen.

still, there are certain characteristics that are entirely you

and it is these,

more than anything else,

that sets my heart a racing.

but why?

i want to find someone worth loving again.

someday, you will, be loved...

Saturday [The Daydreamer...]

Sometimes, when I am babysitting, I pretend that the child is mine.

That there is a husband soon coming home to us,

and the clothes i iron are ours.

He woulld creep into our childs room and kiss them on the forehead as they sleep,

wrapped tight in dreams and love.

Come find me, by the fire place

[because i hate the cold and love,

like a cat, 

to curl up close to the warmth]

and he would sit, and sigh,

a release of all the tension built up during the day.

I would look at him and smile, 

a kiss lingering between us and then

i'd rub his back as he told me of his day.

A meal would be shared, simple, 

warming food, all prepared with love,

and eaten amidst laughter,

discussion, sharing and conspiring.

He'd reach for my hand across the table and tell me

he loves me,

and i'd smile,

safe in the knowledge that

should he never utter those words again in his life,

i'd know it anyway because it's in his eyes.

Later, we would curl up on the couch,

my head in his lap, and his fingers brushing out

imaginary knots in my hair.

The rain would drum its steady heart beat on the roof above and

we would stay

tucked up warm

safe in each other

safe in ourselves.

Sometimes, there would be arguments

disagreements

and days where he would come home to a cold dinner and an empty house.

But these moments, too

would pass,

and even in out most desperate, disastrous moments

I would always tell him that I love him,

before the blanket of sleep rendered all thoughts incoherent.

This kind of fantasy always gets sidetracked by one, sad, distraction.

This husband has no name, no face,

no shape to speak of.

I cannot tell you if his eyes are brown, or blue,

cannot tell you the colour of his hair,

or the sound of his voice.

I do not know his favourite food, the things that drive him and motivate him,

or the things that break his heart.

I only know that he is out there, somewhere.

That he will smile at me across the room

and ask me out for coffee

and that our lives will become so intertwined that we'll wonder how it is that we ever lived apart.

Dear husband:

I am waiting for you.

And in the meantime, I will work on making myself the best wife one could ask for.

Just for you.

Pour toujours.

maybe, one day, maybe, some day...

Friday [The Daffodils....]

in time of daffodils (who know

the goal of living is to grow)

forgetting why, remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim

the aim of waking is to dream

remember so (forgetting seem)

in time of roses (who amaze

our now and here with paradise)

forgetting if, remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond

whatever mind may comprehend

remember seek (forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be

(when time from time shall set us free)

forgetting me, remember me

it isn't late, but i am tired.

that makes me sad and yet,

my head is on overdrive.

as usual.

e.e. cummings fixes everything.

lover, come back...

Thursday [The Secret Garden..]

oh, hi.

i wish spring would hurry up.

words do not begin to describe how much i'm longing for warm sunny days.

and...

something?

someone?

a possibility

and a question without an answer.

i cannot give you one

at all.

it is cold and my heart is dwelling in warmer places.

not here,

no, no,

and not you.

[not that long ago, you told me to stop saying no.

i can't.

it is,

when you're around,

the only word on my lips 

and i,

made a promise that i would stop saying yes, when i meant no.]

i tried.

i swear, i did.

but my future is not this,

and no,

it is not you.

instead, it waits for the summer.

for twirly skirts and heels

[which you hate, and makes me wonder

how you can think that this will work]

for adventures and beach days and long drives with the windows down

picnics in the park and

sunshine.

oh

sweet

golden light.

come back soon please?

i was made for sunny days, and i was made, for you...