Posted in Blog, Creative Writing, Personal, Writing

Sant Jordi, With You

It has been so many days,

three hundred and sixty six,

to be exact,

since I sent my dreams down the river,

on a boat,

I planned to sink,

seeing love,

as a damaging dream,

that would kill me,

if I didn’t kill it myself.


I spent a summer writing to myself,

sitting on the shelf,

where I felt safest,

banishing roses from my bedroom,

blood red beating heart,

begging for company.

I lamented,

languishing in loss,

living in a grey world,

dreaming of the dream I drowned.


I wrote a world of roses and promises,

but sometimes books burn,

torn and tattered,

when they are given with love,

but not loved in return,

so I decided to stop,

just writing to myself,

spending Sant Jordi with my soul,

buying myself books,


and cider.


This year,

I am at the riverbed,

reviving the dream that I drowned,

and mourned,

writing new books,

with new twists and turns,

roses on my skin,

with each kiss you plant,

and I give those kisses,

sweet like roses,

to the dream

that found her way back to me.

My heart,

safe in your gentle hands.

My dream,


My soul,


One thought on “Sant Jordi, With You

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