I confess, I read books late at night far in excess of my chronological age. There is one I have loved who never loved me back. It is a refutation of those who I’ve stood with.
There are times late at night, I dream drunkenly of beaches and of palm trees at night, artifacts of the past. I live on my idealistic youth alone. It’s long past it’s expiration date. But years have passed and years will come before I give my final gasp; I still love her.
I haven’t seen her but for glimpse in five years. Likely I won’t see a glimpse again. I’m a coward…. I’m a realist! There’s no hope but in idle dreams.
I don’t want reality.
I want the poetic verses that never existed, I want sublime feelings that only exist in sheltered people yearning to break through, I want what only can be found in books no longer read, and the bottoms of bottles still yet to drink.
Days ago I passed a house I will never live in, except in my fantasies. There was a soundtrack played, as I imagined myself in the gardens, my fingers running through the ironworks, painted white, but rust showing through. Of grass and eroded concrete. It was as real as the guitar strummings in my mind! White linen suits and gatherings of people I’ll never know! I’m too poor for such follies.
I want a grand home. She’ll be there. I want sensations of things passing, of things not meant for people with calloused hands and minds like mine! It’s as a simple as a bossa nova. The sun burns my face because I work under it, not sigh on a lounge chair.
But that’s it, isn’t it? To live second hand in dreams? I’m not a corpse yet. I can still feel my hands, my feet, my heart… It’s stupid for one my age to be how I am. But it is what it is.
I love hopelessly. I age inevitably. The years pass by. I hear its slow music and I choose not to weep, but to dance.
There will be no one to respond. That’s life.

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