I wonder do you notice me sitting quietly behind you?
When I looked up from my chair and smiled at you politely,
did it make butterflies flutter deep down inside?
I dreamed so and gaze into your eyes, nevertheless, to my demise,
you quickly looked away,
hoping that it'll cure the disease of me
that riddles your mind.
The madness that is a silhouette of my body
growing like a sticky web,
weaving silky white strings along the dark corners,
trapping unsuspecting gray moths.
Their tiny wings flutter helplessly,
and tiny mouths open silently,
screaming in the hollow recesses
awakening the sleeping dreamer,
that you so carefully keep locked away,
so you don't question us another day.
Why don't you talk to me?
Ask me my name?
Like you, I feel the same.
The dreamer that believes in romance.
The cheesy, unrealistic fairy tale in our bleak existence,
the story that always goes unwritten
and my heart questions,
will you let our fate by the same?
Or will you walk with me down the green mile?
Our hands intertwined,
our hearts divided,
slowly drifting far away,
running frantically to catch the orange sun sinking low behind the mountains,
saying goodbye to the purple sky.
