I don't feel like a child at all
I used to wish for a way out
into the sparkling world
of drinking coffee and wearing
the perfect black dress.

My young mind was fruitful
with worlds and scenes. I knew the smells,
I knew the colors, I knew the tastes.

That's gone now
I try sometimes to imagine
things like how it might've been
with you if I had stayed until morning

But all I can see are the oddest things
they bloom unwarranted in the trying
space behind my eyes

I see clocks with hands and feet
A mirror that does not reflect me
the craggy bottom of a sea

Perhaps I killed it
those parts of me
when I never found the things
I childishly believed,
optimism is not  for me.
Death of my imagination seems
just like a casualty.