Sunday, January 4, 2015

Rusty Heart

I sat down on my couch with a bottle of water. I looked at my watch, the face is bubbled with water, I took the watch in the shower with me one too many times. Beyond the steam I can see that it is 9:00 pm and I'm tired of finding things to do.

I guess I'm too scared to reach out and ask someone if they want to keep me company and after all these years; I'm fine on my own, and I get tired so quickly on a work night. So, alone I fall asleep with a calico at my stomach and a white cat chasing my lip balm from the kitchen to the living room of my one bedroom apartment. When the white cat settles on the couch, or on the blanket, on the electric piano, over the heater, so too will I be able to sleep, undistracted by her noises.

The nights are not for lovers or long reads into the early morning. The nights are for sleeps. And then if I'm lucky the dreams come. If I'm lucky they're good dreams. Over the past two or three years they've gone from a black shadow holding me down so I can't breath to having to write high school essays again.

I fought of the black shadow and recently have told the teachers what they could do with their high school essays as "I've already gotten a university degree." I don't mention to them how easily I was pushed through the theatre department for moxy and imagination.

I dreamed last night to a baby, a baby that warmed my heart. There was also a handsome husband who cared about our emotions and our welfare.

I woke up happy. My rusty heart was beating again thanks to a simple dream and the love I had for myself and my home.

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