rose
Sometimes I wish I could tell you things; little things so insignificant and yet so necessary to the endless depths of me. These things would ride on the wave of a whisper, fluid and disarming and flow into your subconscious like water into wine. If I could I swear I would call myself the Miracle Maker. I lie down next to your heat and take in the scent of you sleeping. I dream to mold your dreams and I love with all my beating heart has to give hoping that yours will mimic mine. These secrets, they tease intimacy like children on a playground, but to give in and let them loose would tear the familiarity of dreams within my soul to lonely shreds. I am Delilah, stealing the strength from love in order to save my selfish identity. I won’t apologize to anyone but myself. I will always dream inside my heart and I will never speak these inconsistencies. I want to make love to the memory of indestructibility; hold it in my arms and caress the freedom that has since become stifled. As a child I would run on summer black pavement, barefoot and reckless, awaiting the next excited giggle bouncing around the corner of my imagination. To say I don’t feel her anymore would be a blasphemy to my core, but she is unacceptable by standards not my own and I have not found my footing in this world. But I still believe, and they can’t take that away from me. There are lovely cream sickle roses sitting on my dining room table, dying oh so gracefully, and I sit morbidly waiting and watching as each petal slowly fades and goes to sleep in endless beauty on the wooden surface down below, silently wishing I were a rose.