Its a reflex now,
When my shirt twists in
My bed and exposes my stomach,
That i rub my hands over it
And think of them
Our old dreams
Of innocent children
In which we love
Its a bad habit
To imagine holding them
In my arms
And when reality comes back
I hold in tears
For though they were never real
They once were to me
And now they're dead
Along with all my dreams.