i found a book i used to write my dreams in
my hopes from twenty years ago
all forgotten until i flipped open the pages
and found myself gazing at a woman i used to know.

she dreamed of rock climbing and traveling
to Paris, the Brontë sisters’ moors, and Rome,
she dreamed of a cottage on a hill blanketed in fresh snow,
wishing one day she’d have a beautiful home of her own.

she dreamed of time slowing down for a kiss from her beloved
his ring around her finger glittering in the sunlight
she dreamed all these things and more
until reality swallowed every single hope in one bite

i should return the book on the shelf and pretend i never found it
for it’s too late for me to dream such silly things,
but she pressed the book to my breast and whispered,
it’s never too late to live the life you still believe in.