A yearning swallowed softly,
In the wake of reality
Never dared to be dreamt -
It fades away, leaving whispers behind.

They follow me as I work, and
Gaze wistfully out of the misty window -
As I lay in my bed, tired
Dreaming softly of worlds (not my own).

Those whispers distract, daze,
Destroy - destroy my life, built so
Tirelessly with my sweat and despair.
How could I throw away all of this,
When I worked so hard to get it?

Those whispers, they answer -
You worked for it, yes,
but you never
Wanted it.
What is it that you want?

And my traitorous mind, it whispers
(no, screams) back -
Dew-dropped meadows, sunsets that
Burn like fallen gods;
Views that steal my breath, suffocate
Until no thoughts remain.

Awe that makes me breathless, paralyzed -
A beauty so vast it cannot be
Understood.
Dawns that rise with me, falling away
Like old skin, the sun raw
On my transformed self.

Oh, I know what I want.

I had a dream last night,
Where I was singing Christmas carols,
With Bob Ross.
He didn't know the words,
To "Silent night."

Is falling in love like dreaming – for I have tasted a mere pinch of
love, and I implore you, do not pinch me, and wake me up. My heart
dances like a brush upon the canvas of my flushed cheeks; I yearn not
to rush into this enchanting feeling, yet I find myself swept away in
this exhilarating feeling’s rush.

Like a lush forest adorned with vibrant canopies, I sense a love that is
both elusive and captivating—so wild is the sensation you evoke, as I
strive to quench my eyes thirst, for one more glimpse of you.

My emotions are splattered across the canvas, each stroke a testament
to the artist's longing; your aim must have been true, for this feels
nothing short of a masterpiece. I draw nearer to you, like that very
pencil, etching thoughts in my mind, desperate to articulate the
depths of my affections.

Tell me, is falling in love like dreaming – for I have tasted a mere
pinch of love, and I implore you, do not pinch me, and wake me up.
I quite enjoy being in love.

I have laid in the tall grass
and let the sweet smell of its lush
green blades,
fill my lungs and head,
until giddy,
and light headed.

I lay back and become enveloped
in and ecstasy of
heady tranquilly.

My fingers traced the stems
sensually
liken to a lovers fingers
over silken skin

Papus are freed and fill the air
drifting on the breeze
carrying my dreams and wished
to my love

i accidentally fell asleep on a blanket in my backyard
the sun was warm, the sky was clear, and the ground wasn't too hard
when i woke up my husband was smiling at me
and in his arms was our beautiful baby
they both had glittering brown eyes
and i smiled back at them; i love my life.
the baby was laughing and everything was perfect
and suddenly, all the pain was worth it.
but then i woke up in the real world
i was not your wife, not even your girl.
it felt so real, but it was just a dream
will it ever become a reality?

My roommates and I
always have something to say.
We talk incessantly, like chirping birds.

We’re all reading the same large print here, and It suggests that college is almost over.
We’re bleeding time and there are dreams in need of scheming.
It’s time to stack our chips with transactional relationships and hoard the things that matter most.

I have to admire the sheer attitude and bravado of these girls—their defiant strides,
as they face the invisible indignities and constant obstacles of job hunting.
(Where they’re required to behave while they’re observed and evaluated).

They have their resumes and they’re complaisantly ready to flex their appealing gregariousness.
All of the major playas are passing through—from established giants like (Amgen, Bayer and Genentech)
to biotech startups and research Institutes—to cull through the herd of Yale biomedical graduates.

I don’t get to play (interview) this time and it’s rough just watching the signs and plays from the sidelines.
I can’t help the feeling that I’m underperforming—even though my ‘Master of Public Health (MPH)’ program starts 10 days after we graduate. ‘Baby, I was born to run’— to steal a line from Bruce Springsteen.

Despite our separate paths—we’re like cats getting ready to jump in all directions—a bouillabaisse of intoxicating and terrifying excitement for the future is brewing, and we still have the constrictions of our current curriculum to deal with—like a snake, it still wraps around every aspect of our lives.
.
.
Songs for this:
born to run by Bruce Springstein
Time by Tom Waits
.
Oh, and a Christmas playlist because—it’s December!:
https://daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_03.mp3

Take care when you dream,

not to get lost in all your --


possibilities.