A fresh paint out of
Coloring books.
The idea of it being
In a place beyond
Good or bad--
It's actual butterflies.
Light legs, dance
Moves and radio
Playing your favourite
Songs--
You couldn't even
Say her name aloud,
Thinking whatever
You felt was sacred,
And it needs to be
Preserved--
A dreamy prince riding
A horse and a princess
Waiting for him in
A glass castle--
The clouds gather,
It rains, and you're
Stupid enough to
Believe coincidences
And you actually smile.
Then, adulthood
Eats innocence.
Your fantasies leak
From the gaps in
Time that's not
Relative.
You dare say, love
Is not unconditional
One day, thinking-
The realisation is a
Pumped up achievement--
But you'll not be
Knowing it just yet-
About how you
Killed in yourself,
A child.