When I Dream Of My Past Love


I only dream of him on Sundays.
Perhaps this is because Sundays are quiet
and tender. The day of no obligations, of rest
where I fall asleep early, warm, and unafraid.

I never know when he will appear, or why.
But he always does.

He leans over me
when I’m sitting on the concrete steps
in front of my house and he takes my chin
in his hands. Slowly,
like he used to.

Then he kisses his world onto my lips,
gently, sweetly, as if kissing back all past mistakes.
As if pulling me back into his heart.

His kiss is always dizzying. I lose my footing,
I can’t feel my hands, the trees across the lawn blur
into greens and browns and greys and I find myself wondering,
even in my dream, why my mind does this to me.
Why I lose myself in him, even still.

I never know where he disappears to after that kiss, or why.
But he always does.

I blink and the world is still swirling, still blue sky
mixed with green grass. And I struggle to find
my legs, my arms, my eyes. My heart
is the only thing I feel. Beating. Furiously,
like a child on the playground, like a terrified animal,
like the girl I turn into nervous and longing,
waking in tangled bed sheets
wondering why. Thought Catalog Logo Mark

Marisa is a writer, poet, & editor. She is the author of Somewhere On A Highway, a poetry collection on self-discovery, growth, love, loss and the challenges of becoming.

Keep up with Marisa on Instagram, Twitter, Amazon and marisadonnelly.com

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