the dead dreams too

lying in my grave,
dreaming of things,
of soulmates, and of second chances,
and of parallel lives, and of the one who got away.

it was funny.
because when i was still alive,
i always dreamt of those things
while having coffee.

but i was dreaming of those things
at the back of my head.
while the front side was busied with
bill payments, work, and routines.

now i'm stiff and cold,
i have all the time in the world
to dream of dreams,
and of the one who got away.

there are no walls here,
no limits and no inhibitions,
no one dictating what i could or could not say,
no one judging what is right or wrong or proper.

i like it here because here
i am my own muse.
i have found my poetry and i have found myself
and i can freely dream of the one who got away.