unsaid by me and unfelt by you

a hopeless romantic

They call me a hopeless romantic, but I would call myself a dreamer. Why you wonder; and here I answer.

I dream of getting flowers so I can caress the delicate petals against my cheek and close my eyes, living with the mist of fragrance it will create, rather than when it will be adorned on my corpse.

I dream of sitting with you in our backyard under the shed, sipping the coffee you made with our heads laying over each other basking in the warmth, rather than grimacing over the dark clouds on rainy days.

I dream of getting forehead kisses when I get home, hugging you closer for comfort, rather than sighing and looking over the deafening silence in the cold room.

I dream of getting smiles and confessions of your love again and again through your eyes or words, I do not care, rather than my graves getting wet with your unruly tears.

I dream of crying over your pain together, holding onto the last thread, sometimes you give 20 out of that hundred and sometimes 80, rather than falling into the abyss of hurt alone.

I dream of laughing together while cooking imperfections, rather than playing with rice on the plate in loneliness.

I dream of us.
I dream of being happy.
I dream of being content.
I do not dream to be perfect; I just dream to be us.
You and me, the imperfect us.

- v

Author's note:

Is it too much to ask? It seems, it is.

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