baggage's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- The room that once was a morgue And so I dreamt of you last night. I was working on your computer-perusing your files for some mention of me-a lowly invader of privacy in search of some validation for these lingering shards of guilt/lust/passion/love. Here is what you are: You are footsteps steps on a stretch of virgin snow. You are faint scratches on a hand that remembers that squeeze goodbye. You are the suspicious silhouette passing my window-coming only at night to populate my dreams with hints of a pretty face and a moonlit smile. You are all these things, even though you were almost 10 years ago. And you're still here-the perpetual thorn at the side. You spoke to me while I slept. You dad was next to you (we never even met. his face was a shadow) and you mentioned something about goodbye or farewell or see you tomorrow. I don't want to see you tomorrow. We said our farewells long ago and still you come around, unannounced and uninvited while the love of my life lays next to me full of trust and sleep. And so I awoke and, despite the bitter taste in my spit, kissed her on the cheek and silently asked for understanding. "Please don't hear what I whisper at night," I thought. "It was nothing more than a slip of my heart." 11:08 a.m. - 2004-02-08 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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