Wrapping Dead Flowers Around a Dead Love

Cruel to have me loving you in my dreams. Cruel to try to contain it as my love for you breaks all bounds. In this waking dream my love for you may not be. How sweet for us to have smelled the rose opposed to us sitting and watching it blossom. To have our fingers bleed from the thorns. We plucked her by the stem, picking each one of her petals, making foolish wishes.

“Love me, love me not”

Landing on the latter.

Each dream is like floating through a graveyard. Filled with all who passed and will pass. Those who have floated into and out of my life. People I havent met and long to love. Oceans, jungles, swamps, and woods. Cruel to have loved you in my dreams and not in this waking nightmare. Your eyes twinkle and my heart flutters. The hope is not to have your eyes gouged and my heart stopped. It will all be rot. Where do dreams live, go? Holding oceans and universes.

You had become the adventurer, filled with stories of human connection, heartfelt moments, funny anecdotes. I like a child sitting in front of a puppet show. Dreams filled with people I no longer see, those who have scratched me with scars. I am the picker and the healer.

Maybe there are those around who have lost their head and had to find a way to put it back on. Some loose their minds before they loose their heads. I question if sanity exists. Maybe all is it to be human is to hold our suffering, joy and peace as best we can, only failing when we loose compassion and trust.

I have no lover.

Absence corrupting trust, how can that be? Our impermanence weighing as much as our infiniteness.

A woman alone is not devoid of wholeness.