the slow art of breathing bitter

Good Dreams Are Never Good

I thought I could forget you

as long as I'd burn in the sun.

The tanned fingers upon the sand,

Tracin', teasin', and ticklin' all along

the sky-blue hours of Sunday summers:

Wishin' if I could ever erase your pale face

from my mind forever.

But forgettin' you was like peelin' the thin skin

on my fingertips; rose-red nails diggin' tender

cries in purple wings.

And seein' you around all the time

was like chokin' in inky water throughout the night.

And a sudden shiver down my spine:

If I could ever forget you, won't my love chase me all the time?

Because I was the fragile rosebud

That waited for the dreamy winter sun to kiss my cheeks—

Before I'd see the world, oh, hyacinth purple world.

Alas! I was stupid—stupid to wait for the sun

When I got nothin' but sharp raindrops,

Scratchin' my skin into raw pink:

And it was bleedin' in angst.

I was too fragile to wait for someone.

And then you came, like a whoosh of wind—

Rustlin' the leaves, shiverin' the field.

And just like that, you left an army of butterflies beneath

me; to float on them and dream.

But good dreams were never good: how could they be?

Once I saw the world, you were no longer with me.

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A/N: But I think the little star is still left. So why not tap it and shower happiness? Thanks!