i lay down the full weight of my sorrow
on a bed of letters
and pray the night lasts till the end of time:
rest, rest, wake not tomorrow.
alas, every word turns like the days.
perhaps i would have fallen in love in the dream
had i not stayed up to see the heavy dawn.
i'm used to it, i'm fine.

are my lips to utter more lies?
if only i was a caterpillar
with a new world to look forward to
merely dreaming i was human in the meantime.
are my lips to utter more lies?
if only the past
were shed away as easily as it is
for moths and butterflies.

my demise, like a delicate flower,
grows in the palm of my lonely hand
and on the tip my withheld, powerless tongue.