The unspoken hurt holds heavy
On my tired timid tongue

If you were a book,
I'd read you again.

If you were a ride,
I'd wait in line.

If you were my dream,
I'd never awaken.

If you were a star,
I'd never look down.

If you were a flower,
I'd never look up.

If you were mine,
I don't know what I'd do;
But I'd do it.

I hate this feeling.
This wake up from a good dream in a bad mood feeling.
This you'll never be better than the foot you shot yourself in feeling.
This gnawing loneliness, teased by your brain feeling.
This dream and reality are as far apart as your imagination and your imagination is nothing if not endless feeling.
This ruins the day before it even begins feeling.
This if I knew how to cry I'm afraid of what the waterworks might give life to feeling.
This silent, silken feeling.
I hate this feeling.

It wont always be like this. It wont. And it will be all over your hands and it wont be like this.

I dream about how we would conquer jungle gyms and grocery stores.
Anything, an adventure in how not to grow up and instead grow in.
It hurts to wake.

You will want to tell her everything
And you will
But it will be in wordless ways
Passing by, just below the surface
Shallow enough to be just audible
Deep enough to be confused for something else
Faint enough to live in the time between blinks
Real enough, but never quite real enough