Tell me sweetheart
does the thought of her make the butterflies come to life?
do you want to dance and sing and follow white rabbits
or are they daggers that dance inside of you?
if you let them they will consume each other
the hands you need to catch you are your own
Because your eyes tell a story
your heart can't bear
and as much as you pretend
we all know you're not really here
the ground absorbed the tears that fell that day
and from grief grew a vine
it wrapped around the tree where she used to lean
next to the heart encased initials that never seemed to wear with time
and he went back occasionally
just to know that it was real
and the day the red rose grew
he remembered how to feel
held onto for it's purity and beauty because it is rare
Because unlike people memories can stay the same
or shape themselves to fit the past we wanted
Sometimes it's easier to love an idea than a person
and sometimes I sleep when it's not raining
But it's better when it is
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