willoughby, i had a dream!

i felt so small when i dipped in

to the foyer of your soul

and became one with your familiarities,

that even now, as i grow into my clothes,

you remain a shadow in my sleep.

you had settled into my arms,

affirming the fate of achilles’ tomb,

that you fell asleep once more 

in my waiting arms

and loved me the way i remember.

your bright soul, twentieth sonnet muse,

cried onto my shoulder, sunny dapple

dropping onto my shoulders.

my lips met the delicate lines of your throat,

and twenty jars of light spilled 

into hades’ underworld.

then, i wake alone, and it is afternoon.

the heat scorches me through my window,

and i am a kid all on my own.

for every dream i have of you,

i walk back into the circle of my myth

when i am desperately trying to crawl away.

oh willoughby,

for all the poets i seize back to life,

for all the ink stains i inflict onto my skin,

i only wish to say that

i miss you,

i miss you,

i miss you,

and it is disgustingly shameful.

oh willoughby…

July 15, 2025

This poem came to me like a piano falling on my fucking head.

I've been riddled with these dreams for almost seven months now. While the events were all odd and different with their own set of intricacies, they were all held together by the same premise: everything turned out okay. Everything is alright, I am not alone, and I have all the people I lost to my sentimentality and knack for mistaking attention for heart.

The dream I had this time was as vivid as the others - I was back at school. My math teacher was mad at everyone about some issue regarding littering, and we were all subjected to the fury of an environmentalist. My family was there for unknown reasons. By the time my teacher finished shouting at us all, I was already halfway out the campus, more than ready to just sleep it all off.

That very plan is interrupted when a strong pair of arms wrap around me in search of comfort. Their embrace is firm, they bury their face in the crook of my neck, and their legs wrap around my hips when I find a place to sit. At that point, I was somehow back at home, except the walls were all red and every room had a balcony. The rooms were peculiar - bigger in size, emptier with an echo, yet familiar.

That body refused to let go of me. I know who it is, so I let them cling. It's Willoughby. I let them linger. They are desperate for the love I used to give when I still had permission to give it, so I take the opportunity. They fall asleep in my arms, I pepper both sides of their neck with reverent kisses.

I then wake up, and it is noon. The sun seeps through my window, and the humidity pisses me off. I'm alone, sweating under the blankets, and the dream seems to have made my bedroom warmer with my humiliation. Why would I dream of that? I've evolved into a decrepit being with how long I've pined.

"I felt so small when I dipped in to the foyer of your soul and became one with your familiarities." I once believed myself to be nothing until it was revealed to me that I was known. That I am associated with another, that one cannot be without me. Only then did I become some thing - when the perception of my existence relied on if I was loved or not. What a thing it is to admit, that I am only real if I am held.

"That even now, as I grow into my clothes, you remain a shadow in my sleep." Time has passed, it has successfully casted all its spells. I've witnessed my rise, my fallings, the bridges I've burnt and written, the things I've given up, the steps I've taken forward. I've given myself grace, let myself pray for strength every Sunday. But the dreams, they don't stop! There's an unfair proximity between me and what appears in my sleep, but I know it all so intimately. What is the point of the grace I've given myself if I'm unwilling to walk through it?

"Your bright soul, twentieth sonnet muse, cried onto my shoulder, sunny dapple dropping onto my shoulders." Have you ever read Shakespeare's 20th sonnet? If you haven't, you should also read up on the story behind that piece. To be in the face of such beauty, of such a radiant smile that it's light seeped into my fractures and made known my true colors... what a shame I lost it. What a shame the radiance did not like my truth. What a shame that my truth was not made for light.

"For every dream I have of you, I walk back into the circle of my myth when I am desperately trying to crawl away." One must imagine Sisyphus happy, right? This suffering does not grant you the miniscule mercy of unconsciousness or chance to imagine joy. I will never accept the fact that these are my circumstances. Why would I, when I know what God has done for others? When I see how my friends have loved and lost yet still managed to take steps forward, when I see how enchanting my poetry is when I suffer? How? How? How?

"Oh Willoughby, for all the poets I seize back to life, for all the ink stains I inflict onto my skin, I only wish to say that I miss you. I miss you, I miss you, and it is disgustingly shameful." Sometimes, I end my poems with this raw direct truth that I usually veil with imagery and Greek metaphors. I've read the poets, the philosophers, the novelists. They've all seen the glimpses of my poetic musings, the incorrigible repeat of my memories, the irreversible effects that makes up my life. More often than not, my hands are dirtied with ink because every time I remember, I draw blood, which means it's time to write. It's a call for more art. My poems may be revered, but few fail to see how pathetic it is that they're all about the same person. Perhaps it's a common thing among artists, yes - doesn't make it any better for me. Companionship in my pining does not lessen how disgusting mine is.

Truth to be told, this poem didn't exist until five hours before I released the mini issue. I looked over the PDF file of the issue, read the poems back and forth, made sure all the graphic designs were in place. The first poem was supposed to be much more romantic, more sensual in it's feeling. The initial poem was hungry with desire, desperate to latch it's lips onto something. I wrote that poem around January, and while I do love it and thought it was the perfect piece to express the 'love' I had for the 'Willoughby' persona, this mini issue was not the right place for it just yet.

'Willougby, I had a dream!' was written in an email I had sent to myself, finished in about five minutes with no proofreading while I was in line to buy fried chicken for dinner. There's no, like, flowery or dramatic revelation that happened in that mundane evening. Truth be told, there never really is. To put it crudely, I spit shit out and hope for the best.

Letters from Milena

written by Milena

160725

do not steal or repost