and you were on my mind.
A hangover from a dream.
(my subconscious still converses with you)
One turn and out of bed,
the canyon air, perfect.
The kind of day you only get in LA,
in spring, before the heat.
My mind melds the dream with reality,
and I want to continue that conversation over lunch.
I mentally pack a picnic basket,
food binds us where little else did.
Soon I'm feeling the wind in my hair
with you in front of me.
Dreams are beyond the need for safety,
we're flying...
Reality begins and ends in dreams.
Though not real, Facebook smacks of reality.
Post on my home feed
of how to love yourself more.
I am confused.
This is not the problem, it never has been.
I love me and have the capacity to love you,
but you don't, not me or (I have a sneaking suspicion) you.
This perfect late morning in the Hollywood hills,
it should be a movie.
My subconscious makes it a movie,
"You're supposed to be the leading lady of your own life, for [fuck] sake!"
The setting may be right,
but the players are not.
Obviously I have not reached the arc.
My plot is still being written.
Until then, I will be kind to myself
and remember that reality begins and ends in dreams.
