I had a dream about you last night.
We were in a desert, pretending calm, enacting love.
We were bleeding rays of violent, mandarin sun.
We were inhaling heaven, exhaling hell.
Satan’s bell rang, echoed, and reverberated off in the distance – as if summoning us to dinner. We dined in each others presence.
We were hungry, famished, starved beyond belief. The days had turned weeks, months to years, and we were just lost, lost in a sea of enamel-toned sand.
You were naked, and I was tracing your soft, suggestive curves like an amateur, depraved artist wielding a wand of brush. Your skin was warm, we were warm, bathing in our cooperatively, brewed, fermented body heat.
Vehicles of delirium would occasionally pierce the deafening silence of the dreamland turned wasteland; we paid them no mind though. No we were windswept, caught up in making the fuck, making the love. Tracing the love.
In this dream, we were together, but in life – the world that runs on the fumes of reality, we’re not. Without you, I’m living on fumes of loneliness.
You see, I knew the only way to keep you was to let you go. Let you go off, lose yourself in a new reckless story for a beat. Oh, and you lost yourself didn’t you?
In the dream I traced you into practical existence, though in life, at this moment I’ve no trace of a notion where you might be. Must be why we communicate through the land of the dreams – where imagination dictates the discourse of our actions.
I suspected, well, I really hoped you’d wander blindly back my way. Wander my way as if a drunk down an alleyway littered with an orchestra of emptied bottles of forgetfulness. I hoped you’d give us another chance. Hoping though, it’s really just an act of giving ourselves over to wants and desires without taking action.
Actions, they do speak louder than words. For all I know you, you were waiting for me to pull myself up from the abyss of distilled oblivion. You were waiting for me to open up, glare my ‘real self,’ shed the falsified exterior I’ve grown too damn accustomed to wearing.
If only I’d acted, better yet, reacted to your passive waiting, I wouldn’t dream without rest.
You were the best thing to happen to my fucked up in all the right ways clippings book of a life, and I’ve faith we’ll find each other again.
Maybe it’ll be a casual run in at a grocery store. You’ll be crouched, bent over picking out those organic red bell peppers you so fondly incorporate into those omelets served out of heaven’s kitchen.
I’ll have been sauntering aimlessly, thinking booze, smokes, and half-baked regrets only to see that unforgettably, striking, strand of black-as-raven hair from your side profile, and of course, I’ll note your jawline a fierce kind of timeless beautiful.
Everything, life, will make sense again. We’ll make conversation over coffees, yours with two creams and a sugar, and act as if our paths only split ways for a refuel pit stop, to cross once again and drive off, chase down a horizon of love that transcends death.