This must be part of the curse

you and your bruja put on me

to dream of you

every so often

holding my hand

as i welcome you back into my life

i always think it is a dream

and then realize it isn’t one.

only to wake

alone in my bed.

Well not exactly alone

the dog whimpers wanting to go out

the old one on the floor unmoving until i step on him

and the big guy only few miles away

and my heart happy with its solitude

i dream of painting trees,

blind in the fading light

and of this painting class i am taking

and of brilliant orange streaks of paint

on the mottled skin of a sycamore tree

and when i wake

here and now

i am an artist

and you are not part of me



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