I used to care for little things.
I used to stare at her — for anything.

Her presence — a quiet warmth.
Her beauty, engraved with moral sense.

I searched for her,
Desiring… something.
Like loving summer,
Even when it wasn’t the season.

Why can’t I feel now?
Why can’t I see now?

I lied.
Not to her —
To myself.
Camouflage.
Pretending.
Hiding the real me
Behind polite smiles
And the fantasy
Of her fragrance.

The wind passed.
She didn’t.
And I —
I only needed to breathe
That one moment.
That moment to live,
Not merely pass through.

Why can’t I lie now?
Why can’t I breathe now?

I used to do anything for her.
I used to feel too much.
Sad.
Emotional.
Mad.
Human.

I used to dream of you.
And in dreaming,
I forgot
Which part was real.

Why can’t I be mad now?
Why can’t I be sad now?
Why can’t I dream now?
Why can’t I feel now?

Then — that night.

She stood
On the bow of the boat,
Hair caught in wind,
Hands folded,
Lips soft with mist,
Moonlight whispering on her skin.

The sea slashed the port.
The wind howled through silence.
The stars stood still.

She stepped forward.
Closer,
Closer,
And closer —

Until her breath became words:
“A good dreamer you are,
Beloved.”