To My Dearest: Fantasy

To my Dearest,
And I envy the sun and the breeze, for they can kiss your skin. How lucky the moon is that it gets to see you every night. And when the wind and the trees sing your name, they get to see your contentment upon the lips that roses have blessed.

I worry, that distance is the only reason love holds. It makes hearts grow fonder, but also lets minds wander. I trust I know you well enough that what I hold are not fantasies, wound around fingers and knotted on wrists.
It is uncomfortably easy to think of you how I want, when you are not with me to correct the meanders.
Doubt gets its wretched fingers into the gaps, tells me plainly that maybe what I know of us is a fabrication, an illusion I have painted to force some connection. Perhaps our hearts lean on beliefs of each other that are not true.

It’s a terrible thing to yearn for you. A terrible thing to waver. And terrible yet that I do not relinquish my grip. Doubt can scream and screech, hurt can rock at my ribs, but what I know is certain is that I feel this way for you, and you the same for me.
That is more than enough to believe.

With all my love, which is no fantasy,
My Dearest.

A Poem by Colm Horgan