Skeletons

It happens like this.

Wind catches up, startles the tree right out of its leaf. Naked timber skeletons lining empty streets stare back at me as I drift out my window, behind my pillow fortress of dreams and make believe. I close my weary eyes but for a brief moment. Remember, remember, trying to remember. Almost, like hazy fog settling over a dawning sky, I see a faint halo of what you used to be, in my make believe. More a feeling than a face, a sense of wonderment cocooned in an overwhelming enchantment.

But the truth, in whole and unamended, unveils the inadequacy of my fantasies.

For like the cold of winter, the honesty of your raw, beating human heart breaks me from my sleep, breaks me from my distant wonderment, and I burst into the present. Explosions and fireworks and dynamite. Et cetera. And like you, my heart tumbles out of it's deep, fortified chamber in my fleshy, fantastical chest. The truth of it holds me, shakes me naked like the timber skeletons I used to wish upon, and I succumb to a sort of alarmingly disarming bliss not even the purest of youths could imagine. What it is, this truth of your being, with total certainty, is far more brilliant a vision than ever I could create from the sanctuary of my midnight slumbers.

Though I reckon with due assurance, that I will fall short of perfection, and with my wild nature and impulsive, non-categorical instability make a right good mess on occasion, I will humble myself at your merciful understanding. I am a child of dreams and make believe. And you are something far beyond imaginations. You are truth. And the reality of your joy and your pain, your long listless gazes to your own curious dreamlands, and your ever inspiring tenderness despite it all... leaves me in puddles at your feet, yearning to be lapped up.

I can only but purge the wealth of emotions bursting out of my finger tips onto the bare, virginal pages before me or be entirely consumed by the happy anguish, the wonderful terror, the welcome fear of being in love.