Today I feel old,
As if the sun has risen on my soul
More than enough times that I've closed my eyes
And wished so dearly I could turn back time.
Tomorrow I'll feel younger,
As if every book I've read and every page I've turned
Had been explored for the first time by my glassy eyes
And I'll be filled with wonder as I feel the new wet soil under my feet.
I write poetry in my sleep, apparently.
You were talking in your sleep again.
Finally admitted your mistakes but it's too late.
I'm awake laying in bed, the waters rising, my pillows wet.
Where did all this water come from?
You spoke late night diatribes, sweet nothings and the waters up to my ears.
I can't hear ****, the waters rising again.
I'm staring at the ceiling and it took form of scarlet, vanillas skies.
I'm almost underwater now, my lips, and the tip of my nose are touching the surface.
My visions a blur, I'm drowning alive.
I finally figured out the origin of the artificial forming body of water in my room.
All this water is coming from you, from the leakage in your mouth, truth saliva.
Your somniloquy song usually last thirty seconds.
I guess, the only time you can speak honesty, is when you're sleep talking.
I find it a bit intrusive how you talk to me in my sleep
simply to hear the secrets I keep.
— The End —