Wounded Dreams Can Be Beautiful

He never understood the concept of dreams. Were they secret desires or lost wishes? Perhaps they were just wounded fears. Or maybe he was wrong and dreams were just fragmented pieces waiting to be deciphered. Puzzled incomplete ideas throughout riddles no one but himself was able to understand.

She was her sweetest riddle, his wounded dream- one he didn't want to remember and yet one he never tried to forget. When he closed his eyes she appeared like an angelical demon, surrounded by darkness. Darkness was beautiful in his most glorious blacks. He praised it and crawled back to it every night he remember how it had been.

The last time he kissed her she tasted like closure. And he couldn't conceal that his dream was vanishing right before his eyes and he wasn't able to grasp it. His life was pinned to a cliff, slippery like streets during winter. Cleansing; washing away from his hands.

She didn't want to be caught. So he did what she always wanted him to do: let.go.

And his dreams were replaced by ghosts; vanishing velvets from the past, translucent pain that always intensified at night.

What once was a hopeless romantic turned into cheap merchandise. His flaws became his failure. His dreams became dust. The mid-October rain he once came to love materialized as tears. And his dreams became his wounds.

I purchased him for a tin-foil hope; the product included a broken heart, shattered feelings, bittersweet disasters, and sweet catastrophes.

But I didn't care, he was, after all, my own secret, lost, and wounded dream.