How do I voice what you were to me?
Dream of my reality…
Like a different state of awakeness.
I can look back and relive it,
every kiss, every heartfelt emotion,
but now I find myself not believing it.
I am told to remember and treasure
these memories, these haunting memories.
You were a page from a romance novel
misprinted into my realist autobiography.
The elegant descriptive handwriting,
set against hard bold typing.
It was as real as the pain I feel now,
but as clouded as a dream I can’t remember.
Shooting stars cross paths and continue,
Romeo and Juliet decay in their young graves.
Remember it. Remember it?
Remember and enjoy an editing error?
I log it away with my other misprints,
they’ve culminated over the years.
I could combine them together,
create a romance novel to rival,
but since when is life a romance novel?
I could also cut out the romanticism,
but then were would the realism contrast?
What is the point of these real life experiences,
that were never meant to be real in the first place?
They happen, like a dream that has manifested itself.
You find yourself saying, “this can’t be real!”
It is, but it isn’t at the same time.
I will remember you; such an envious story!
I hate misprints for exposing what you can’t actually have.
Maybe they make life bearable.
Without our momentary exposures to a dream world,
perhaps reality would be unlivable.