What you can’t dream of


Blossoms. The haze in the dark sky still stays fresh as it tucks the moon to sleep. Under her bed lies what goes bump in the night.

Blossoms. Cacophony of car horns and sirens barely audible, but enough to keep Lady Luna awake. With eyes peering upwards, watching the bubbles of moonlight that seeps through the folds of their fingers, the essence of water steals the air from your lungs. What you can’t see is hiding from your view, waiting as you make your move first.


Blossoms. You only live one night at a time and long become forgotten. You are beautiful, but you are only a transient being that nature has created for her to see. Only the eyes of the dead, or the mystics, know you exist.

Blossoms. The scent of your flesh is not edible, but it allures all curious beings to watch as you slowly sway to the rhythm of the calm, warm wind. We don’t know who or what you are, but we objectify you like you’re one of us. You’re the essence of poetry, yet the very being of evanescence. There is no celerity for your presence in such a gaudy life, but your appearance is the subject of undying awe. When you vanish, your memory lies with us, unless we have never seen you before.

Blossoms. The light takes your hands and twirls you in a drunken waltz, for it invited you to dance your only dance in the night of lush.

Blossoms. It’s nearing its end and you see the blankets have begun to clear and you see the watercolours in the sky brush gently, ever so particular in detail and in sequential strokes of a brush. It’ll all be over soon, they always say.

Blossoms. You’ll be up until the sunlight burns your heart and its shadow. But you gladly give it away, as nothing beautiful lasts forever. You’re all you’ve always wanted to be.

Blossoms. It grows near.