There are daydreams stuffed in my pockets, sparkling city lights under ashen pale skies and poetry painted along the street-lines. Each heartbeat is content in itself and my bones no longer ache my stomach doesn’t clench at the mention of your name as he dances with his shadow to Frank Sinatra. Jukebox music in tiny bars and karaoke nights, eyes gleaming with hope as the sadness starts to wash away with each letter I type and each time I read over the same book I bought when I was twelve because there are just too many memories stuffed between each line. I don’t have to think about all the lives I could have lived if I had stepped out of my bedroom more often.
Reality stares at me from afar and I start to suffocate between the same four walls because dreams are everything but the truth, they are envelopes drenched in diamond white but empty on the inside. And I wonder when it become too much, the let downs and numbness of every touch. Wouldn’t it just be easier to empty out those pockets before I’m faced with the let downs they may carry.-H