Pieces

I cut out a piece of the sky for you
To match your blue dress
To pin to your hair
So you can say as a joke
That your head is in the clouds.

I cut out a piece of the moon for you
To glow when it's dark
To hang in a frame
So you can look at it
And recall the shadow of my smile.

I cut out a piece of my heart for you
The part that still beats your name
To do as you please
To wear on a chain
Or bury in the ground.

(I wrote the above in September 2012.)

I Dreamed, Again

I dreamt I was in the UK again. That's twice in a less than a week. This is unusual.

This time it was Manchester. I knew it was Manchester because there were trams.

I was walking the streets at night. It had just rained. The air was thick and the roads were still wet. There were lights in the corner, just beyond my vision. Undoubtedly the lights of the clubs and pubs and restaurants of the city I was so familiar with. It could not have been anywhere else.

I approached a group of ladies clearly dressed for a night out in town (another sign I was in Manchester). One was a tall, middle-aged woman with blonde shoulder-lenght hair and an angular face. She was in heels and a flowy pastel coloured dress.

Can you help me? I asked.

She walked away from her girlfriends towards me.

Of course, she smiled.

I can't quite remember but I think I asked for directions to my friend's place or if she knew where he was; what I do remember is a burning sensation of wanting to find that friend and talk to him.

I can't remember what said after that, or if she said anything at all, but the burning sensation remained.

I Dreamed

The other night I dreamt I was in London.

It was late afternoon, the rays of sun still touching some parts. I don't know what season it was; it was chilly but not cold.

I was elated. I skipped through the streets. I knew it was London. I just knew it deep inside.

And after I just knew, I noticed billboards for West End plays: Wicked, Les Miz, etc.

"Yes, this is London!" I thought.

There were people with me, around me, but I didn't notice their faces. I was too happy.

But it was not quite London.
It was far more industrial, far more direlict, far less crowded. It had old brick warehouses, rusty faded signs, moss and dirt on walls and pipes. It looked as if most people had abandoned the city and left it to run down for years. It was Manchester, really.

I didn't notice I wasn't really in London until I woke up. But then again, I wasn't really in any place, was I?