Sessions From The Balcony: Dream Poetry

And then there was silence.
No words. No noise, nothing to say.
Just silence.

The only light was the moonlight
which slipped through the drapes
that hung across the bedroom window.

And there she was, lying on her side,
eyes open like a child’s, yearning to live and to feel,
and brightened by the bluish glow from the moon.
Her mouth closed, breathing through her nose
and face gently resting on her hands;
her body curled to find comfort.
The room was also in a bluish hue
to match her sentiment
of being alone but waiting,
yet not alone at all,
and yet she was still waiting
listening to the whispers of her intimate thinking.

Outside, the cold wind blew
The city beneath her was alive and moving.
Cabs whizzed through streets like kamikaze pilots
Pedestrians made their way down the avenues
and all she could do was wonder.

She wondered if she splurged too much
for the taxi ride home.
“He was nice to me,” she thought while considering
someone that spoke perfect Spanish,
which was Castilian, which is the native dialect
and the standard version of the language
spoken at the Castle of Spain.

And Spain, an idea, a vision —or a dream perhaps,
such as any dream we have,
or such as the dreams we dreams
just for the sake of it;
to be somewhere, such as anywhere else
She dreamed of in places with names like Ibiza,
Majorca, or the island of Tenerife,
or anyplace far away
far off in the vastness of romance
where moonlit seas flood into moonlit bays
and off-shore breezes fill the moment
with nothing short of a love’s embrace.

She lay there, wondering,
considering the way the sun would raise somewhere else,
how would this be, clear across the world?
She wondered how the sun would feel on her face
or the sand would move through her toes on an empty beach.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” she thought to herself
adjusting her naked body beneath the sheets,
sexy as ever —or better yet,
sexy as a woman that wished to dream, to feel,
to want and to ache for the hand of love to come along
and touch her softly
and caress her every curve

She rolled to her back, face up,
looking plainly at the ceiling while lost in her dream
thinking about all the ideas of love
and lust
and her lust for love’s touch
and the soft handprint against her cheek.

“Someday,” she thought to herself.
Someday when the stars aligned,
or when the paths cross,
or when soulmates overlap as fate intends it
because love is fate
and so is faith
so are the dreams
so was the night, alone in her bed . . .


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