A Whispered Dream
I write on the scraps of the life I’m supposed to live.
Like doodles on an old newspaper or
Secrets whispered into the white noise of a crowded room.
I pour the ink of myself into places where it will never be seen.
I drag it into the shapes and letters that follow me wherever I go.
They tell a story that has not begun and
Bleed through my pages
Making a mess.
When I step back and
See the whole of it,
I’m reminded of a dream.
A dream of technicolor green grass knolls and
A lonely blindingly blue sky.
A woman made of wind and sunshine.
I think it’s me.
I can’t be sure.
Because then I’m sweeping the octopus ink blots into the bin and
I’m tempted to just leave it there,
Soft and vulnerable.
But I upend a coffee pot over the mess and
The ink swirls into the air.
It pushes through my chest and
Takes the green grass and
The blue sky and
The woman who could be me with it.
Once it’s gone and
I’m alone,
I set the pot on my desk and,
I sit down and,
I try to forget.
