I built a wall around my heart for you.
It took years.
You kept tearing it down with your devilish grin and soft eyes.
In time it held true.
You walk in the room and my heart does not flutter.
My butterflies are caged.
Impervious to your smile.
Immune to your touch.
Indifferent to your voice.
When before the ground beneath my feet would falter and there was only you and I.
I flew on the wings of butterflies.
For seven years.
I was high in the clouds.
And you were on the ground, admiring flowers.
You found a beautiful one, but she has thorns.
Have you felt their pain?
Or are you blinded by the beauty of petals?
You threw rocks at the wall last night.
Like pebbles on the windowpane and I faltered.
I opened up.
Your butterflies have long died but there was something in their place.
I looked beyond your shoulders.
At everything around us.
Funny how Rocket Man changed that.
When I was always the one in the clouds.
Your steady hand on my waist.
Your soft breath on my neck.
Our interlaced fingers.
I focus on your shoulders, your body.
I let myself fall into you.
And it’s just you and I.
I’m not in the clouds.
And it scares the hell out of me.
I was right about the butterflies.
The wall is back.
And I’m flying.
‘Til touchdown brings me ’round again to find.
It always starts the same.
My story writes itself you know.
You do, because your story wrote me out of it.
It wasn’t an end of a chapter.
You’re an anthology and I was a sentence.
One you refused to punctuate and more importantly end.
I became run-on, fragmented.
I’m a novella.
Rich in detail and character.
Think of what isn’t written or seen behind those black bars on the pages. It’s worth it.
It’s time to put a period on the end of that sentence. But it doesn’t mean I’ll stop reading it.
Cause I have.
Over and over and over again.
You are not a chapter in my life.
You are the black ink on the pages.
It never ends the same.
Now I write in colour.
Off the top of my head.
The search for life – to live.
And then I’ve hit my wonderwall.
Thoughts of you flood back into my head.
Suffocating, but in a good way if that’s possible. Like the fraying of a great dream you know you’re waking up from and you’re teetering on the edge of reality and imagination.
Imagination is candy.
And you don’t want to give it up.
To succumb to it.
Odd that you’re coming into consciousness and clarity and you yearn for the dream.
Would we, in reality, do the same if we knew it was safe? That we could wake up from it all and the mistakes that we have made would have had no consequence?
But there would be no accomplishments.
What would you have in this parallel world.
Or do you even dream?