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?

ROSE:

If you can remember, bring me some blueberries.

And I can make more muffins.

Well, I can make some, and then have more to spare.

HOBO:

I’ll have to check if more blueberries are ready.

…I’m about to pick blueberries you asked for.

ROSE:

I’ll bet you’ll eat some, lol!

HOBO:

It’s slim pickings.

ROSE:

It’s perfect!

HOBO:

And the blackberries are a little tart.

I didn’t pick many.

ROSE:

We could make a pie.

She came to me as a gift to ease my heart from losing my job, but she was small, thirsty, and wilted.

I took her in, planted her in my dirt, and gave her sunshine, water, and good food.

And then, the door that closed to one job opened to another. Another that seems to offer the chance for all the colors, creativity and imagination I have to offer.

I don’t expect any new opportunity for growth to come quick or easy, but there’s something to learn from planting things in sunshine, water, and good food. It grows the most beautiful flowers.

I guess she eased my heart, after all.

I was reminded of something I’d thought I forgot.

And then my heart, well it stopped.

I got angry, then pretended not to care. Then quietly walked down the length of the stairs.

I opened the blinds to look at the horizon. I laid on the bed, stared into the shadows. Then I wrote this trash poem.

But there are no words typed on a note that can ever express empty.

Because empty means nothing, and nothing is all I’ve got.

Fill in the blank

How you see fit.

Tear down the wallpaper Strip by strip.

Time machines are things of the imagination.

But they say the train always arrives promptly at the station.

Nonsense lines and words fill the paper,

But I forgot to send the letter.

Open it and read it.

Then throw it away.

There will be no more filling in the blanks today.

All the time

Everyday

Around the clock

Everynight

July and the Moon

I suppose I could have dyslexia when I read all the counter narratives you sent to me over time.

But it’s cute you finally looked. I’m so fucking shook.

All that I ever was is there written in a new order–Same heart, same soul, Same mouth, same goals.

I chose to be heard for who I am, not what the eye could see. And last I checked, this is the land of the free.

I stood up for you

I challenged you

I made you laugh

I cheered you on

I promised you first and foremost, I would always be your friend. And through it all, I accepted I was nothing.

But maiden blood of the Graham’s of Scotland run through my veins.

I am stubborn, I am loyal, I fight for what I want with an impassioned craze. And just as my forefathers commanded me, when it matters,

Ne Oublie–Never Forget.

You never knew the REAL PERSON and now you do. And you finally asked for none of it, so my reply is this:

As you wish,

Seannja-Jannese (close enough)

~Graham of Montrose clan.