This Man. {Poem}

I had a dream last night.

Usually my dreams are wild and dark, but this one was simple. It was pure and peaceful. It felt real. He was there. I’ve seen him before, here, in my subconscious, unconscious. I don’t know who he is, but he came to visit me, again.

 

 This Man

There’s this man who feels like the ocean to me

I look at him and I can easily breathe

Sitting on tepid sand

It’s a smooth day

The sun melts like butter

Leaking on the lattice ceiling of baby blue and heather grey

The water is wrinkled from swaying air

Gently rocking from side to side

It’s warm enough to bare my arms

But not hot enough for them to hide

I feel lucky just to be alive

With this man

I don’t need a book

Or my headphones

And my belly is quiet and full

I’m not parched

I could sit here through the seasons

With love as my simple reason

This is the love I knew I deserved

A love both of us have clearly earned

His lips I want to explore with mine

Tracing his hands

I find a new line each time

When we debate I discover a new tick

The way he shifts his hips

When he thinks before he speaks

With this man

I want to be here

I don’t want to leave

Unless I absolutely have to

Like pool time for a kid

I only get out to avoid punishment

Time looks on and forgets to tick

What feels like an hour

Has only been two minutes

We still have 58 years before I must go

I’ll get to spend billions of lifetimes

With this man, I know

This my hope and my greatest fear

Cause one day his water is going to disappear

Recede from my sight

The winds will blow

And the sun will drown in his shadow

I will tire and coldness with overtake

Blanketed only by a memory

That seems more like a dream

A dream I was able to live

Loved in the way I knew I deserved

By this man

I’ve dreamt of since I was a girl.

~Rebecca

 

Facebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmailFacebooktwittergoogle_plusredditpinterestlinkedinmail

2 thoughts on “This Man. {Poem}

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.