Untitled

As I toss and turn, tangled between ivory sheets and untouched thoughts, I wander in and out of what is real and what is imagined. Moments stained with colors and feelings that go deep to the bone. The dark black sky eases into a dim-lit morning, promising everything while forgetting nothing. I am a dreamer who does not sleep.

I touch your rough face with my soft hands, and as we breathe each other in, I lose myself. Somewhere inside of you I have disappeared. As my heart races and my blood rushes, I am fearless yet afraid of your every move. A simple look or a single word could strip me of every feeling I have. I am a lover who cannot love.

Sunlight slid across city streets, as I watched all that was grey turn to gold. The cerulean sky waited patiently for eyes to notice that it had, in fact, been blue all along. Crystal clouds swirled and danced with the wind. The world did not need any music that day. I've tried to re-create it but it was far too beautiful to remember perfectly. I am an artist who cannot paint.

And I want to tell you everything, so one day you will know that what we had existed, that we were both real and alive and together. That when you speak, everything else drops into silence. That when you smile, the sun shines brighter. That when you are beside me, clocks stop moving and souls stop shaking. I've written many letters in my head, in black calligraphy on old paper rolled up and tied with silk ribbons. You could keep them for a rainy day, a day that you might not feel whole and hopeful. But I am a writer who cannot write, while you are an optimist who cannot hope.

One day I will become who I am. One day we will get it right the first time. One day.