I didn’t want this summer to end.

But I held back my tears and forced the anxiety down.

I couldn’t tell you about it.

And you didn’t ask.

The only thing that told me goodnight was the pink Crescent moon.

A few days ago I dreamt of you again.

This time you found me in an old abandoned house. The wooden floors, worn and brown.

I was crouched down in the kitchen with fear.

You walked upstairs and then back down.

Then you turned and looked at me.

You had a gun in a holster and a long, sharp blade at your hip. Your eyes said they were for me.

I made myself wake up.

There are two kinds of dreaming:

Sometimes a person visits you in a dream and your mind finally realizes who they always were.

Sometimes you stand before a mountain and your heart realizes it’s those moments and who you share them with that mean everything.

Heartbreak doesn’t ruin poetry.

Poetry is the only thing that can heal.

Would you trade a lifetime of waking up, going about your day, for one full cycle of the moon to come in and sweep you off your feet in the kind of love you only read about in an old classic novel?

Is it ever really a choice?