TINY LITTLE DREAMS OF YOU MY LOVE

It’s so cold here I’m numb, in this yellow sun splashed memory of us, once, alone, close, together. Do you still smile and giggle when the powdery fresh snow makes that sound as it crushes in between the rubber soles of your boots and the sidewalk? Do you still think of that night with glee, as we traced ancient patterns upon the pristine pond ice, with the steel edges of our modern era skates? Can you remember those words once spoken…”I don’t even seem to really know you anymore?” That impression from you, my exposed ego, so painful, so uncomfortably wise, it still echoes within the walls of my irredeemable mind. True moments, like those [these] are rare elements indeed.

There’s this dream that precedes the terror. You’re all alone, walking away from the Central Avenue telephone, wind in your hair, my shadow falling upon your gaze. I’m barely even there, no hope to spare, but you; you’re a part of everywhere. It’s a tiny little dream, this clip that never makes noise. I listen so hard for the human sounds, until it returns to dark extensions of moving. This film stars the ghosts and it escapes so quickly, like a rainbow on the horizon, or an unrequited sigh. It’s the one thing left that I can still call my own. I believe in you still. Does that make me a fool?

If there’s time, I’d love to share my thoughts on infinity. Picture us napping on that couch from the world war. You’re sleeping so soundly as I travel the virgin trails of that temporal mind. It’s a special trust to rest like this. I value your surrender, in the deepest sleep, yet still so close. You’d wake and ask, “what time is it,” as if you’re surprised I’m still here? It’s quantum entanglement, our atoms became one upon this galaxy, together forever, the trillion, trillion, trillion connections in all dimensions. The matter that binds our dreams no matter. You’d say something like; “God you are so dumb.” It is haunting how simple the best of our lives truly are. No drugs, no liquor, the chemical intercourse is organic, and brilliant. I yearn for that pleasure so high up it floats. Not true love, but true nature.

“Don’t forget to live,” you say, the last time we walked along the path beneath the birch and birds singing their songs. What did you mean? Was it something so obvious that it’s hidden from my view? If our souls are of the same matter, does writing, or crying, or laughing and dancing even matter at all? You gave me everything, and still? It’s more than nothing at all.

There is an epic full moon coming they say, only 9 days away. It will shine 30 percent brighter than moons for a hundred years to follow. Look up my dear, on that satellite that glows so bright on that windy night. It’s the closest we can get to together, watching the orbit in suspended perfection, all four eyes consuming its arc, and its inevitable fall. They say it shatters into a billion pieces called stars, but I swear it’s all infinite, we’re little more than each other’s consequence, less one another’s faults.

As I work at this novel, somehow your spirit underscores the pain? Picturing and considering the horrendous image of combat and the hidden scars of war..so cliche, I know, I wanted to share my pain, shake the pain, mark the loss, cull my insight into the meaning of these merciless, forever wars that do shatter families, and tribes, and children and honor, and my self-respect, therapeutically analyzing the soul, begging for relief from the guilt and shame. Instead, I wander around the imagination, justifying our separation, which occurred beneath this thundering cloud of harried, inexcusable guilt, questioning my full sanity and pretending to not really care about you today.

It’s all connected, I suppose. First love, first war. Last exit, final atonement. You asked me not to go, yet I did. You begged me to come home and I lost my way. It’s all part of the cosmic shift; no past, no future, just right now. Was any of it ever real for you as it was for me love? If you could wake-up again on that couch, safe, secure, cherished, would you want to return? Me? I’m still there, in a way, like I’m still on that dusty street half a world away. The snapping stench of a murderous city pounding my fists, trying to break this terror, this mirror, escape this other dream.

It’s that place that will forever delineate the truth of that soft afternoon watching you sleep. I try not to go there too often. There are only so many tears I can shed at once.

I miss you. I always do.