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.
Jan 12, 2014
Jan 12, 2014 at 1:55 AM UTC
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.
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