I keep them
in the box of dreams by my bed.
The box with the paper strip
of a world I wish could be.
The box with a love
no longer unrequited.
The box which holds
a sense of belonging.
The box that knows the difference
between being alone and being lonely.
The box with the strip of paper
that holds my heart.
That’s where they rust and dull,
but they know the truth.
The type of pain
that keeps me sane.
They know one day
I’ll return.
I’ll begin to doubt the dreams
the rest on.
They’ll ground me
in reality again.
They steal me away
from the fantasy world
to remind me I’m alive.
That this reality,
no matter how painful,
is mine.

Leave a Reply