Us dreamers

Oh, us boys who fall in love with dreams.
Out tonight with Scott and talk of his failing marriage. Three years he waited for Morgan to come back to him. Sixteen ruined possibilities all ending with the same thing: “I am still in love with someone else.” An affair with a business partner and 8 months of therapy and he still wants to lover her, wants her to love him. I have no clue what goes on inside her head. He and I go out and we are like Frank and Dean. Not so attractive, but irresistible, but none of it matters. Morgan is in New Orleans likely with another man, you are irrefutably just down the street with another living with you. We still pine like little idiot boys.
I had a dream that existed long before you. A house in the country, with a screen door. A woman and children in the yard that I spied through that screen door. Music feeling the house. A backbeat 50’s rhythm for kids whose peers would come to treasure them above all come high school years. An eccentric life that is thoroughly normal as well. A daughter, perhaps, who sings perfect harmony.
I had a dream that existed long before you, that you waltzed in upon and demanded the leading role in . I gave it to you. You took it. We both fucked it up. I am not sure what your dream was. I am not sure that you want to sing death ballads to you children. But my dream and you became inseparable in me.
These last few weeks I have been trying to give up on the dream. To create a new dream perhaps since the one I held so long seems so impossible now. I think New York City. I think a hipster life in Texas. I think what it would be like to live in the London that wanted to eat you.
I cannot think of southern countryside. I cannot think simple anymore.
This afternoon I saw “my niece” walking in to see her aunt attached to her mother’s bosom. Fifty yards later on my run I saw “his” car and realized that Clary and he are no longer strangers. I wanted to run across the street to see Gates, but she was too close to you, to your house, and there is one place I cannot allow myself to go in this world. Fifty yards further down the street I would have that simplicity of seeing a child, that comfort, but not there on those grounds.
It was my dream flying away from me. It was a testament to my foolishness. More than drunk, I have always been foolish. Oh, pity us boys who believe in such silly childish dreams.