do not promise me, dear.

We’ve come home after the ramble, the float and the dive in the little garden of this bustling city. How I love climbing the little grass blades with you, shrinking our human magnitude into something smallness wouldn’t even recognise.

We’ve dreamed and trailed our dreams. We backtracked the path and realised the coordinates of the brightest stars are ever so near. But your eyes are empty now, dear, wincing with shallowness and doubtful resonance. Instantly, I know what has crossed your mind— the paradoxical enormity of our dreams and the uncanny life path midst uncertainties. A cloud of compassion hovers above me.

I see it in your heart that you’d want to promise me the mountains, the little cabin in the woods and the frugality of a life in service. The chord of promise is in your chest, and it wants to become uncaged. It wants to become the servitude towards a life beyond us. Pause, love. Promise no more.

Despite our dreams being so beautifully richly small, I know they are only dreams. Make them that way, not the other. The language of promises is confined and is mostly laced in doubt. Promises often fall from our hands and shatter in their fragility. But dreams, oh dreams, are held by the hands of God, and the light of the angels.

And maybe we would never see the mountains or the little cabin or the vast rainy mushroomy woods. But a dream was sent to the divine, and the beingness of our hearts was shaped by it. There is nothing to forgive when the holiness of the universe decides wilfully upon our lives.

I love you for the dreams we will never touch. I’ve touched your graceful hands through the dreaming, and that is quite simply enough.