Wishes die slowly, fighting with every kick and punch and gasp. But wishes– dreams– are fanciful things made most of midnight talks and music full of empty drums and open spaces.

Dreams are born of a lonely heart, twenty-two years too long, and hope like a prune. Loneliness is the twin to dreams. It is the spice that flavors the sting, the ache that empties the drums, and the plain that stretches wide in the rear view.

©️ 2022 Katie Baker