I think i should stop dreaming,
beaming at the sight of sun-kissed vines.
I think i should stop hoping for a past that wasn't my own,
or a future as bewildering as thine.
For all it takes is a scent,
and eyes'll refuse to open
and i'll start pretending again
that things are where they're supposed to be:
thy forehead,
well maybe,
no more than an inch away
from mine.
My deepest breath are shallow
as puddles on concrete floors.
Then my heart will start to follow
until i love thee no more.