Raindrops/Not my Dream
The raindrops flood through your waterfall-like strands,
reminding me that you are not my dream.
Though, you look almost dream-like,
but not nearly reminiscent of a fictional tale or a pathetic, melancholy rendition of our naivety.
You stand in front of my doorframe cold, but the flame in your eyes speak louder, quieting my curiosity of all the delusions that looked back at me in the mirror.
They stare back fulfilling the roller-coaster finale of my heart that dips within your embrace.
The world drops its red curtain and gives me the reality that I always called mine.
In these moments, we tie the final ribbons in a gentle bow that package the bouquet we once carried and secretly harboured;
the actuality slowly shys into the dampened air.
From eye to eye,
hands to hands,
skin to skin,
mind to mind.
Soul to soul.
The extremities of our tainted beings and personas plagiarize the appearance of a golden image, like those printed on the tabloids surrounding our unfinished teacups as they rest on the splinter-coated coaster.
It changes overnight.
From an uncertain doorway, to the mis-mannered sheets,
it has all changed.
And here I stay,
warmed.
But I still keep thinking about the raindrops that flooded through your waterfall-like strands,
reminding me that you are not my dream.
Maybe my mistake,
maybe my truth.
Maybe you are simply an endless mystery in disguise, and yet I know we would not have it any other way,
would we?
