I was hoping that I'd be more to you than just a transient phase. Yet you leave me questioning these memories. Your coldness makes me wonder if I've somehow lost touch with reality. Maybe it was my delusions that gave me my sanity.
You touched me once, I'm almost certain. Just a little warmth goes along way. You caused me to break my vow of solitude then you disappeared like a dream. Now like a nightmare you come haunting me, seducing me for something you now lack.
I was hoping that if I captured you, like a butterfly from the superficial world of pollen and petals, that you'd reveal those familiar colours. Instead you just flew away and I'm left in the emptiness again.
Those moments that we shared meant so much. Now You've become so frigid It's hard to see past that and feel your touch.
I was certain, almost certain that I loved you. Certain almost certain that you were the one. Maybe my saviour didn't come. One thing's for sure I dreamed you, cause you could never have been real from the start. I made you up, now my heart is falling apart.
Now you speak of barriers as opposed to blooms and you confuse setting suns with dying moons.
I grasp at your wings, repeatedly I fail. Capture you, if I MUST, or kill what you've become. A dream is but a dream if redemption doesn't come.
I know I hurt you,Thats the only fact for which I'm sure. Cry for me since I've hurt you, that's all I'm looking for. Just BREAK DOWN AND DIE FOR ME 'till you are you once more.
Butterflies are but insects now and what was once depth is shallow.
I loved you once I'm sure...
but you are something else, I cannot love you any more.
The mirror
He was sitting there, alone on the cold hard floor, captivated by the deceit of a dream. A dream that somehow, he could be normal. Somehow the cruel permanence of reality could ease for one moment so he could make real what he imagined. All these years he felt the private pain of a public scar. He could never be like them...this was his path in life, the burden of being everything but.
A hand came to rest on his shoulder. For a brief second he thought it was hers or maybe his but the voice that spoke dispelled the notion with a cruel gentleness like the loud whisper of one's conscience.
He was empty again despite being perplexingly occupied. He was displaced again in the madness of his unobtainable desires.
The voice spoke, "it does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live"
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