I made up two things,
People — or lovers’ rings.
One writes the lines,
The other paints the signs.
So let me share how they feel,
Let me present them as if they were real.
Dorothea or Niki — the dreamer in me.
Doesn’t know which she is anymore.
She’s the version I write in my poetry.
Me as someone to adore.
She speaks in stanzas, dreams in rhyme,
Wishes for a love to last past time.
And then there is Poppy Piume,
She’s a lot like my real world friend.
But in this poetic arc that isn’t her doom.
Here — we are the a story with no end.
She answers in dreams, if not in the day,
A voice I imagine when I drift away.
In my imagination there is no goodbye,
But in sad reality she doesn’t even reply.
So I write, as she paints, and I try not to cry,
And I pretend our silence is just a lullaby.
Inspired by reality, but not there anymore.