Used to know a girl,
and for months
I would sit up at night
on my bedroom floor
thinking about her,
and mixing whiskey with wine
and hopes with fears
and dreams.
When the world
would start to get
a little blurry around the edges—
you know,
a little separate from reality—
I'd dream
about her loving me,
about being in a relationship with that girl,
about taking her someplace nice,
about meeting her family
about even our wedding and romantic honeymoon.
Who knows?
Maybe, I was just lonely
sitting there by myself
on my bedroom floor
and mixing whiskey with wine
and hopes with fears
and dreams.
She was quite the girl—
petite and blonde with a cute little ponytail
deep blue eyes that I used to swim in
and a smile that glowed like an angel's.
She was Born-Again—
I wasn't sure
if I was alive at all
as I dreamed of love with her,
and love and her,
and I sat on my bedroom floor
mixing whiskey with wine
and hopes with fears
and dreams.
She told me that she loved me,
but not in that way—
but she did convert me
(for awhile anyway)
to the Word—
as she called that book,
The Bible.
And because I dreamed
of love with her,
of love and her—
I prayed for miracles
to happen
because she told me that they would.
I even went to her
Bible-study group and
her fellowships too,
and I even almost believed
the words that she taught,
but when I realized,
finally,
that she didn't love me
in that way,
I felt all prayed out
and tired of waiting for miracles
to happen.
I haven't seen her
in a couple years,
but sometimes
I still mix whiskey with wine
and hopes with fears
and dreams
while I'm sitting alone
on my bedroom floor.
And last night,
I prayed for miracles
to happen—
just like she told me they would
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