here is a dream
we are under the stars, lips swollen, voices echoing. we speculate everything. (how much of an asshole was aristotle. how bad does oscar wilde really seem. who the fuck is shakespeare.)
here is a dream
I meet the cold morning breeze, and your poetry is by my doorstep coupled with daisies like the ones you hold in your eyes. your words and soft metaphors and striking truths are the first things I witness in the morning.
here is a dream
I treasure the dried tears on paper, tracing your handwriting with my finger. I press the daisies between one of my tattered paperbacks. I smile at the fact that you've always preferred hardcovers over paperbacks. I chuckle at the irony of how you're the one who commutes more but opts for the heavier option.
here is a dream
there are painted flowers in a small sunlit corner. I see art in wafting steam of either coffee or tea. it doesn't matter but it does, we love both. I tape the napkin poetry and ballpoint drawings on the kitchen walls. I write poetry and love notes on post-its and slip it inside your current book for you to find. you gently pry off my glasses and bookmark my paperback and kiss my forehead after I've fallen asleep while reading.
here is a dream
we grow mint and basil and succulents. you name a flower after me, metaphorically. I sew your name in embroidery thread and put it in calligraphy. because after poetry and I love you, your name is the best word I know.
here is a dream
we riffle through pages of philosophical writings and memoirs and I ruffle your hair and kiss your sun-dappled skin. we listen to music. your presence is the peaceful sort of gloom I long for in a hot day. I am filled with love and tenderness for you.
here is a dream
we find the answer to love, we find the answer through each other.
-a.h.