Ismael Santos      Miami (Ziggy Pastor)
I used to dream about Love 


I used to dream about Love. I sighed, like Percy Bysshe 
Shelley, Brooding on snowy mountaintops, ever the Romantic 


I pined and pined and prayed and cried,
Waiting for someone, for Love to come and recognize me, me, 
me. That did not work. 
It never does. 


I wrote poems, texts, letters, and sent them off, like ravens
Flying through the Gothic night, like carrier pigeons with little letters 


Tied to their feet. It did not lead me anywhere, except for the
ability To write about such things. Went on dates, and didn’t say a
word/ Didn’t get dates and pondered what was I missing out on/
Years passed,
Still, I dreamed, and wrote, and wanted to express my own insatiable soul. 


I threw all I had into what I thought you were, Love. The dream of Love
Was soon replaced by Reality. 


I tried to live and accept it,
But the Old Ways are deeply rooted, and hard to let go of. SO, I myself drifted 
apart, finding myself disconnected, detached, and wholly alone. 


I didn’t want Love.
Imagining the days of more dates, of more Tinder swipes, of more random 
bar, and life, connections. Hopping from one hope 
to the next. And knowing the end result. 


the end result:
Sleep, bathroom, repeat. 



The days passed.
I forgot about Love. 
Love seemed like a squatter in a condemned building, doomed to be 
gone Any moment, any second.
Like a distant memory of a trip, like a day spent with
insomnia. I did not, would not, could not believe in it, 
anymore.
But, time passes, as it always does, and something strange 
happened: Love, you came back. But just a little differently. 


Instead of the man screaming love and waving around 
flowers to any and all who would ever look upon him, 
the Love became the man
scattering the flowers around him, 
and saying hi to the bees, their pollination 
another cycle of the life. 


Now, love seemed like a familiar neighbor.
I am unafraid to say that I, too, feel love, and love, in return. 


The Brooding Romantic on the Snowy Cliffs of Dover 
Resides more in these words. 


The days go by quickly and fuller, somehow. Love is just love to me, 
now. No more madness/And yet, 


I still wonder.