It’s all an illusion child.
The tire swing hanging from the oak tree, with your feet dangling in the air, brushing against the fragile dandelions.
The feelings that consume your insides while reading a book under the dim flashlight, tucked beneath your covers.
The mornings with snow falling from the white sky, that keep you in bed a little longer.
The smile from the stranger walking down the street with coffee in his hand.
The date you had at this cool pub and the coolness you felt having that martini and the awkwardness that took over in the car.
The curtains that you spent months picking to put in your rented apartment.
The colors of the sea driving back from a weekend away.
The Sundays that you savored, cuddled up in the arms you thought would never be different once more.
The after work drinks you had catching up, laughing out and smoking your cigarettes.
The stories. The secrets. The intimacy. The ache. The anxiety. The love. The hate. The love.
It’s all an illusion, child, of what you hoped your life would be. Of what it could have been. Of everything in between. You prayed for a novel, and all you got to be was a story. And stories end. But novels, novels they linger at the tip of your tongue, tugging at your taste buds, reminding you with every sense that you are forever changed.
It’s just an illusion. It’s all in your head.
For your eyes only do the words alternate and the memories transform. Just for you, does the illusion exist. It eats you up, chews you to oblivion then throws you on the pavement for the poor unfortunate souls to feast.
It is simply an illusion.