Saturday, January 23, 2010

Kenny advised early on not to fall
in love with the dreamers and I scoffed.
See, he failed to add the asterisks and details
but I soon found the dreamers were the ones
with the hearts of gypsies, the legs
of wanderers.

I thought I was a dreamer, too, that a
double shot of romantics on the hunt
for one another would mean a match.
Instead I found the pragmatic in me
the realist who yearned for who he
shouldn’t have. Dark hair
attached to an accent and warm eyes
made for a fantasy, the one who
felt too true to be good
proving instincts right.

Now I choose to fall in love with dreams.
I had one in my awaketime last week
and in it I dug for sand dollars
with my feet
on the coast of the Gulf of Mexico.
I collected seashells, seven plucked
from millions being saved for
seven-year-olds with empty buckets.
It was 83 degrees in November.
I stole a touch of sunburn.

Entered broken and left three days later
cast in the brand new, the newly focused.
And, while dreams are never entirely safe,
they never lie when it’s past time
to do so
when real feelings get sucker punched
and I’m left with my thumb out again
folding myself gently into
the security
that accompanies friends.


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