Midway upon the journey of our life,

If I was taller I’d lift you to the topmost branch of the tallest tree in the highest forest to show you how close the sky is to the ground, because I think if you knew, you’d know that you are no stranger here, that your soul may feel small and weak, but there are stars and planets and galaxies swirling within reach, and though the clouds may hide them, and the dark obscure them, they still exist, burning without end, because they have a light. And it’s theirs. 

happiness is the way you speak

and the way you write

and the way you laugh

and the way your chest rises

and the way your chest falls

it’s the way your eyes glow

when the world is grey

and only you are in color.

He is here, come down to look for you.

It is the song that calls you back,
a song of joy and suffering
equally: a promise:
that things will be different up there
than they were last time.

You would rather have gone on feeling nothing,
emptiness and silence; the stagnant peace
of the deepest sea, which is easier
than the noise and flesh of the surface.

You are used to these blanched dim corridors,
you are used to the king
who passes you without speaking.

The other one is different
and you almost remember him.
He says he is singing to you 
because he loves you,

not as you are now,
so chilled and minimal: moving and still
both, like a white curtain blowing
in the draft from a half-opened window
beside a chair on which nobody sits.

He wants you to be what he calls real.
He wants you to stop light.
He wants to feel himself thickening
like a treetrunk or a haunch
and see blood on his eyelids
when he closes them, and the sun beating.

This love of his is not something
he can do if you aren’t there,
but what you knew suddenly as you left your body
cooling and whitening on the lawn

was that you love him anywhere,
even in this land of no memory,
even in this domain of hunger.
You hold love in your hand, a red seed
you had forgotten you were holding.

He has come almost too far.
He cannot believe without seeing,
and it’s dark here.
Go back, you whisper,

but he wants to be fed again
by you. O handful of gauze, little
bandage, handful of cold
air, it is not through him
you will get your freedom.

- Margaret Atwood

So, what do you do 

when the girl of your dreams

isn’t dreaming of you?