Lifting up the fingerprints you left on my forearms, I’m trying to prove to myself that any of this is real.
You’re a daydream and a nightmare.
You’re everything I want and so much I can’t have.
It feels like fingers are running up and down a piano on my spine so that I’ll learn to walk in time and not look at you the way that I know I shouldn't look at you.
It’s hard sometimes.
Silk depositories have grown up in my eyelashes and on your rosebuds, and it’s a walk into a wonderland where the clouds never look down so we’re left perpetually looking up.
Madness is catching.
Attempting to color in my dreams, it seems, to the untrained and uncouth eye, that you could be just right.
Truth is, we’re all wrong here.
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