You were the dream I awoke from, hand out-stretched, trying to shovel all the air into my mouth because I couldn't breathe at the thought of you
You were my bare legs when I looked down at school and realized I was only in my boxers
We've all had that dream
My psychology professor was bold enough to say even children have the ability to speak a sentence in words that have never been strung together before
You were every new syllable that came out of my tired, 4 a.m. mouth
You were the place I went to when my brain relaxed
You were the girl, tired of love poems, so I said I'd write one about the twenty-seven steps it takes for a caterpillar to turn into a butterfly
But have you ever noticed how much effort a butterfly puts into flapping it's wings
versus how content a caterpillar is just to munch on some leaves
Look at what this has turned out to be
A love poem of something that used to be so brilliant that maybe we were taking our own twenty-seven steps but some curious child was too busy plucking us up to squash us down when they could have been stringing together a new sentence the world has never heard
and I'm sorry
That we are nothing now except traces left on a child's hand
We are nothing but twenty-seven incomplete steps
We are nothing but unspoken words
we are nothing now
but you're still the dream I awake from sometimes
There are still fingerprints of yours on my bare legs
you're still etched into the fabric of my boxers
you're still there, you're still there
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 5:03 PM UTC
You were the dream I awoke from, hand out-stretched, trying to shovel all the air into my mouth because I couldn't breathe at the thought of you
You were my bare legs when I looked down at school and realized I was only in my boxers
We've all had that dream
My psychology professor was bold enough to say even children have the ability to speak a sentence in words that have never been strung together before
You were every new syllable that came out of my tired, 4 a.m. mouth
You were the place I went to when my brain relaxed
You were the girl, tired of love poems, so I said I'd write one about the twenty-seven steps it takes for a caterpillar to turn into a butterfly
But have you ever noticed how much effort a butterfly puts into flapping it's wings
versus how content a caterpillar is just to munch on some leaves
Look at what this has turned out to be
A love poem of something that used to be so brilliant that maybe we were taking our own twenty-seven steps but some curious child was too busy plucking us up to squash us down when they could have been stringing together a new sentence the world has never heard
and I'm sorry
That we are nothing now except traces left on a child's hand
We are nothing but twenty-seven incomplete steps
We are nothing but unspoken words
we are nothing now
but you're still the dream I awake from sometimes
There are still fingerprints of yours on my bare legs
you're still etched into the fabric of my boxers
you're still there, you're still there