I lie here, thinking of you,
As I often do.
This time, however, I realized it might not be true—
The dream I have of us, where you wear red and I wear blue,
As a symbolic representation of our spiritual hues.
It can't possibly be real; that which constantly plays in my head.
The idealized form exists in the mind, but when materialized, it's just a bunch of pale roses in the garden bed.
There's not enough water to keep them red,
The sun doesn't shine brightly enough, and they fail to live up to what was said.
"They will be so beautiful, they will be so nice."
But the months go by, only for their sweet fragrance to be trapped in winter's ice,
And I think even if our love does compare to what's in my mind,
It won't last a lifetime.
Does that dissuade me from pursuing you?
Not entirely, though it leaves me confused.
Why do I follow what will be bruising, when I could sit and forever peruse,
The depths of my imagination, the stories I've told,
In an effort to construct the perfect love with my mirroring soul.