As they fell for the characters,
I fell for the authors.
And I am frightened
that I might never be free.
For I will always be earth-bounded
by the gravity of what happens in real life -
the fact that the mind of a stranger,
could be this beautiful and splendid,
and this is the closest thing I could get to it.

She was a monster who lost the sharpness of her fangs
Who ran away to hide inside an old, mystical cave
With faded black and white photographs on wooden frames
Hanging on its cold, uneven walls.
There were dozens of fireflies dancing in the shadows
to which she compared the beauty of the stars.
There were cracked mirrors and cobwebs and broken clocks
And old binoculars with dusts permanently embracing its lenses.
There was a tiny forest at the bottom of the cave
With miniature trees and lakes and stagnant rivers
Where the three-inch rainbow-bearded goats and one-eyed faeries play.
She spent the whole afternoon sitting on a small flowerbed
Beneath the cracks where the sun was shinning --
dazzling and serene, magical and quiet,
As she read thousands of tales about the real big things.

As we slowly drift away from each other
We both changed,
Bit by bit, like a gentle rainfall,
Until the traces we left were all gone,
Until my soul no longer remember
How nice it actually felt like to be with you.

It certainly doesn't feel real anymore.
It is as if I just woke up from a long yet hazy dream
And everything that happened
Is now a part of a non-existing world.

I know I am empty,
But at least I am free.

You are a clock without hands.
A living metaphor, forever vague and paradoxical,
A second-hand gem that I can only admire
behind the safety of a glass case.
You are the dust on my knees,
A part of me that I will soon have to let go.