last night i dreamt i didn't love you, that the butterflies never fluttered from my eyelids to your cheeks, that fear never crept up on me when i was life was too blissful. i dreamt that i could see beauty in the way the light hits stained glass, how roses grow thorns and books that smell like their stories. now i only see it in the way your fingers flutter when you're nervous, how the only thing you know how to calculate is risk, your crooked teeth. my face is a window and i think you were the only one who took the time to push back the vines, open the curtains. the rooms inside swallowed you whole and i was left writing songs about people who don't exist, waiting for the light to shine through my stained glass.