Two women and a man
One behind the door
The other walking in
The man standing between them
with his face on the floor
One not going to be
being brave is free of wasted days
The sex Kat stays
and stays and stays
to live a life of
mostly wasted days
because it’s hard
“You haven’t written anything yet!” the alarm for saving said. The page had been open for hours and hours and hours.
Gardening got in the way. And the mind stayed focused on that task, no stories seemed to be streaming in the brain while digging like so many other times — for instance, sleeping.
That was a good thing — a case of meditation.
Waking in the middle of the night, words fall out of the bed too — more awake than the person walking and sometimes the words are written down to turn into something come the morning. Sometimes they aren’t — written down, and it’s almost always cause for sorrow. The bed is too soft to grab the pen and the covers warm and the kitties waiting and eyes won’t open wide enough.
The words are clear, the body is simply just too tired — or is it lazy?
The crawl back in is heaven.
The kitties settle in again. Everyone goes back to sleep and there is hope to dream of something for the morning.
A tall, handsome man with curly light brown hair nuzzled in to kiss behind her ear and he whispered sweet things to her and laughed and twirled her around and grabbed her in as she tried to get away and then started cooking something for her.
That woke her up.
Why so often dreams of men?
Is she missing one?
It might just be.
It would be nice but only if he was as wonderful as the brown curly-haired tall man in the dream. Maybe someone not so tall or young like he was — after all, she’s old too.
He’d have to like gardening or at least like watching her garden. He’d have to like cats and dogs and pigs and cows and lizards and caterpillars as well as all the other living critters. He couldn’t drink milk or eat meat. He couldn’t hunt or fish. He’d have to do the housework, at least whatever he wanted done that she didn’t seem to get to. She might iron some of his clothes if he wanted, because sometime she likes to iron, but it couldn’t be on demand or every day — she likes too much to be free to play.
There she goes dreaming again not while sleeping.
That kind of man is as random as the chance that one was made at all.
But that miracle has happened. Why not one specifically for her?
Back to sleep to dream it may come true.