A Hope, Really.

Blah Scale: 5/10

photo by yours truly, baby

Some days, as if a tidal wave of faded colors is crashing against the inside of my skull, I miss love.

I lay in bed, comfortable and warm, but lonely. I close my eyes and I can see Him, the allusive Him—not God-Him but the-one-I-have-yet-to-meet-and-fall-in-love-with-Him. His blurry image rests on the inside of my eyelids.

Sometimes, as my conscious mind flirts with sleep, I have a thought. A hope, really. I hope that maybe, as my mind rests and my heart slowly pumps my blood, I'll dream about it. About love.

Like the weaving of threads, my subconscious starts to take over my mind. And for a second I can feel his hand sweep across my cheek, holding my face. Just before I think my final waking thought, a tear escapes my left eye and runs across my lips.

An excerpt from March 2015 (photo from Ireland in 2011)