Another restless night.
A room with a single bed.
Butterflies are singing: “Wake up”!
On the couch and in my head, giving me hope that anything is possible.
Mr Tequila came in, hugged me until I sank into sleep, completely gone.
“You didn’t answer my call,” – I whispered.
“No. I didn’t, Miss Maybe. Because you are dead.”
I took a deep breath, picked up the sun from the floor, – ready to go:
“I am leaving. See you soon, Mr Tequila.”
“Don’t worry, you can’t go anywhere. Maybe… Later?”
I decided to learn to fly.
Unexpectedly slipped, whipping up the traces of vomit from the blouse.
“Is everything all right?” – Mr Tequila asked, arriving like a ghost from nowhere.
“Maybe. Or Not. Oh Tequila, nothing can be truly fun without you,” – pain is streaming down my face.
“I love you,” – he said and closed the grave.
The love felt good on my skin.
I wanted to ask him: “Why, why am I here then, if you love me?” but I didn’t say anything.
Instead I stared from the other side, through the stone of granite, mesmerized by the silent synchronization of his mind and hand, writing:
“What the hell?! How is it even possible?!” – I thought and …woke up.
A large cup of coffee waited for me – the absolute joy after the dark riddled dream.
Ps. The poem is about ‘alcohol dependency’. And for Mental Health Awareness month as well. Check here: Stoner On a Rollercoaster
Image – Jess Marshall, Flickr
Living in Sweden. Awesome. Happy. Writing. Ayurvedic food. Healthy lifestyle. Dogs. Literature. Drawing. Meditation/Yoga.