What is this?
A memory? A dream?
A memory of a dream?
Early morning passes in serenity,
birdcalls slowly replacing the patter of precipitation
as hazy sunbeams drift lazily past the curtain.

Exhale a steady sigh out the cracked window. your breath,
an ephemeral cloud for just a moment,
is highlighted against the garden
and your shoulders fall.
The balloon of breath swells again in your chest, filling the cavity with peaceful Sorrow.

When did She first look your way, blonde locks falling into Cerulean eyes?
When did he brush past you and send waves of butterflies swarming your insides?

Maybe this is better.
Maybe it's better to see the world clearly, without the pretty impediment
of rose-colored glasses.
Maybe it's better to never bite the apple, for what might you lose
if it has turned?
Better to never taste crisp, cool fruits if you can
save your milk-teeth from being lost in ice-chilled flesh.