Dreaming.

I don’t dream of 

you anymore. And 

I don’t mean when 

I’m sleeping. I mean 

the dreams I would 

cherish when I was 

awake and drugged 

by you. 

I’d lay into the 

crevices of my 

mind, and wander 

into the fantasy:

the kids, 

the house with the open kitchen, 

the sunflower garden, 

Dinners together, 

the unconditional love for each other, 

the endless nights of passionate love making. 

Now that I’m 

sober, I no longer 

dream of you because 

I no longer 

desire something 

that will never be a 

reality. 

Dreams are supposed to 

make you hopeful, wrap 

you in comfort, not leave 

you crying yourself to 

sleep with mixed 

signals. Dreams aren’t 

supposed to hurt you. When 

it becomes painful you’re 

not dreaming; you’re living a nightmare. 

I feel a part of me will 

always love you and 

everything you could 

ever be. But I sleep 

better knowing that while 

I love you, I love the 

woman I became since leaving you. 

And she’s pretty fucking dope. 

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