I haven’t been here in so long.
Heart pounding. Hoping and longing. Afraid for that downward tumble.
Standing like a sword-wielder, I reach, I stretch, I hesitate.
I pull back from the power. Too afraid of how much I am capable of delivering.
They tell me I’m different. And I know this.
So much growth.
A refusal to shrink.
A hunger for motion and progress.
New-ness still shrouds these days, but is does not overcome. I do.
And I still dream, just not about the usual things.
Upon my bed at night. Woven in the words of the books I try to read.
Streaked within the colors of my coloring book. Entangled in the yarn of my latest project.
The dream is him.
And he is too much for the words of this page and too much for the hopes of my future.
Because where do the others go?
Do they disappear for a moment so I might entertain him in my imagination?
Or do they fester like those raisins?
Maybe it is all the things. The dreams are all the things. They circle within my heart.
Like glimmering snow whipped off the bank and swirled along the curb.
Maybe they are all the things.
And maybe he is right.