Channeling Juliet: The Dream of a Love I Could Never Have

Remembering Encino.

There is a cobblestone street in Verona.

I tell myself those words every day.

I saw your face by firelight,

in a room where verses speak volumes.

We are strangers,

separated by an ocean and a sea,

but we are converged in history.

There are white lies, stories we say,

to comfort those we love,

but there is no shame or regret.

In the darkness there is comfort.

You were dreamt from the mystery of keystrokes,

a harmonious symphony of emotions,

you filled the screen with life.

You were dreamt from reality

and a clouded haze among poets.

 

There is a cobblestone lane in Verona,

where I will walk with you.

I will sit and hold aged parchment,

in my nervous hands,

and hear Shakespeare roll off your soft lips,

in your Bostonian accent.

Make love, not promises, with your words

A friendship? A kinship?

A lost ship . . . sailing out to the horizon,

where the sun sets

in amethyst.

 

There is a cobblestone lane in Verona,

where time stands still,

and your shadow casts an outline.

Of a life. . .?

On a life . . .?

A cement loft,

a winding staircase,

lies draw the curtain,

and ink stains red.

 

Night falls on dampened streets.

Our library of love with

toughened spines, tattered tales,

and our smiles unveiled

in a crowded cove.

A café table.

The world seems to disappear,

as we write the title

of our story,

I see my heart, when I see your face,

walking down the streets of Verona.

 

Author's Note

I've been in school for 2 years now, 4 more to go. Rechanneling my love of the written/spoken word. Café...I'm back.