I could write you the
stories I've been telling myself since I was small,
the stories I would concoct in my head at night,
relishing the freedom of stolen time when
no-one else was awake.
I still remember because I
still tell stories to myself when I can't sleep.
Someday maybe I'll
tell myself a story when I'm awake.
But perhaps my stories
will melt,
simply melt into gentle murmurs
for the dream girl with golden hair
by the frosty window near the rose garden.
And what then?
I'll simply retire the rest into the embroidery on her pillow for a rainy day.
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