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My dreams are yellow roses on the longest of stems; rooted to people and places, grown in disparate memories, and moments in time.

I grasp tightly at the bouquet, welcoming to my chest their robust beauty.
The heads of the blooms crush against each other, petals folding and jostling for space under my grip.

I run my fingers over the tapering stem as far as my reach will allow. And where tactile contact ends, my gaze resumes. I follow the trail to the edge of my horizon.

Ever fearful that one day I will see signs of decay and know that out there, somewhere, that stem has been uprooted.

Ever fearful that today may be that day’s eve; the day of the uprooting..
And the demise is set in motion and travelling ever closer.
And I, unaware.

Ever fearful that I never made clear what was to become of the seeds I left entrusted. To those nurturing the roots, how they and I are still connected somehow.

And of those I never told. Those whom unwittingly offered such fertile ground for my imaginings, I carelessly dropped one or two, curious, to see if they took.

Diligent horticulturalists and unsuspecting gardeners, alike.
Who could have known how I would rely upon you now?

Tomorrow’s world will what it wills;
that it can bend to me,
or can’t,
or my will, to it.
As long as this eases, ask who will keep score
of who lowered who’s shackles first
and who for?

Perhaps, this time, the words will come.
Not those words, but those words, the right words, for him.
And in hearing, he’ll listen; and in listening, he’ll see
the ‘tear here’ lines, ‘fold here’ marks, dot-dashed over me.

I am not going to tiptoe around your feelings,
They’re neither eggshell fragile, nor hurtful as broken glass.

I am not going to clam up and withhold my self in order to protect you,
You have loved, and love, who I am then, and now.

I am not going to speak loudly, harshly or impulsively,
What I have to say could be said alike in silence.
But I shall say my piece, nonetheless, in peace,
And listen to yours in the same.

Make yourself at home.

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