Jul 15 2011
My Chirping Birds
After we glide through the dreamlike, flowery hills upon which we will eternally lay: together,
After we exchange passionate glances, of which we immediately jerk our heads back to their forward positions to save us from embarrassment: childishly,
After we attend fake, plastic social gatherings, only to spend–no, experience–every tick together: intimately,
After we question our uncertain futures as one, believing the worst, planning every possible way to eventually live the best: cautiously,
After we share a common feeling that we do not to label as “love”,
I sleep; dreaming about your soul; dreaming about your home; dreaming about my home; dreaming about our home.
And every morning when I wake–not to chirping birds, but to the deafening alarm violently tossing me back to the “real world”–I question the reality of the real world.
The real world cannot be real; only My love for you is real.
My love for you is real.
My love for you is real.
You are my real world. You are my dreams.
You are my unlabeled love.
You are my chirping birds.
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