Growing

The Tragic Lover

I wrote secret letters hid them under my mattress.

The steel cot turned into a rosewood coffin.

The mattress into white satin adorned with blood dipped thorns.

I put my dreams to sleep.

Although I must clear the air.

Neither am I altogether hopeless

Nor am I altogether hopeful.

Perplexed and puzzled.

I would term this paranormal.

Phantom dreams haunt me.

I'm unsure of their purpose.

Are they here to scare me off?

Are they here to warn me?

Are they here to deliver a message?

Unsure. Unaware.

But unthinking I will write ghost letters.

And I will still profess my love.

For though I am confused.

Of what exactly this relationship is.

The tiring cycle of tragedy, hope and hopelessness.

Alas, I am a foolish lover.