at the highest point
of this velvet dream
your words feel like
feathers against my soul
you had woven this
picture-perfect scene
out of gold and silk
just for me
you figured out how
to make me sing for you,
every note a direct window
to my very essence
again, make me fly again,
like a petal in the wind
with your honey-sweet
intricacies
coax that song out of me,
the one that makes you feel
like you're drowning me with
my own emotions
push me off the edge
and watch me plummet
to the abyss of the realisation
of my own errors
the plush syllables
that roll off your tongue
are caustic but
just as heady
and my desire for love
that holds me hostage
is white-hot and
just as damning
the sweet words are
not for me,
and while i'm descending
at a blinding speed
i brace my heart
for the cold shock that
comes with waking
from a perfect dream
my poet laureate,
you've played my worn
heartstrings like a violin, and
matched my voice's andante
a song that drifted to
a slow plea for your
lines, your stanzas,
your poem to complete
i borrowed these dream-made
feelings without permission, kept
them in the castle in the wind
you had build from delicate glass
out of the fear that this dream
you conjured would force me to
confront the ideas of my mind's
most intimate recesses
when did i let you steer me to
the edge of the precipice and
push me into a steep nosedive to
the last line of your poem?
now i've reached the inevitable
void that accompanies the
end of a love too good to be true
disguised as paradise
my poet,
i've always known
to not weep at this last line,
at this last scene of this dream
after all, at the nadir,
our dreams are revealed to be
a reflection of our most
outlandish yearnings
and yet, with the zenith
of our idealistic wishes
comes the realistic rock-bottom
and with it, the tears
