when you were five

remember how you thought words

were some of the most beautiful creations in the world

and you put exclamation marks behind everything

because your father said you used them for exciting things

and everything was exciting

and you never stopped talking

because everything was a melody

how you picked pages from the dictionary at random

and let the sounds slip and roll over your clumsy tongue

slide down your throat and taste them sweet against your lips

you promised yourself that growing up and adding years to your age

would never change anything-

but it did.

i watch you sometimes

buried in a heap of textbooks and assignments

the light seeping through the crack under your door till two in the morning

and i hear you curse the very existence of the same words

you once so revered

there is no meaning to

(or love for)

the letters you pen and the ink stains against snow white sheets

and i wish i could turn back time to see

the little child who thought the dictionary held wonders of the world

and gave more than monosyllabic answers to questions posed to them

heaven knows when the curiosity in your eyes died (and why i never noticed)

but god knows i would give up so much

to see it there,

again.