"I haven't produced a decent piece of poetry in a month."

And it's all your fault
I've lost my words and it's
ALL
your
fault

Because I haven't been able to breathe
for a hundred years

There are people I know
who can breathe through their eyes
or their ears
but
I'm
the
only
one
who gasps for just enough breath to exist
through
her
pen
(Actually, I prefer pencils, but they're not as romantic)

But you snuck into my drawer
when I was out of the room
(I hope you're catching the metaphor here)
and poured out all the ink
into one of those "River of Tears" things
(If everyone else can be cliche, I can too)
just like in every love song ever to exist
(I always have been a hopeless romantic)

And I have a picture of you
on the ceiling above my bed
and I admit
sometimes my thoughts are impure
and falcons fly around in my stomach
but most recently I've been thinking
a little differently

In my daydreams
(since I've taken to laying around a lot lately)
it's good enough that youre here
and I can brush my hand past your cheek
without having to worry that it wont feel the same
because it always does
and I can sit beside you on the massive green Lay-Z-Boy
We'll watch Young Frankenstein three times in a row again
We'll laugh at each other for quoting all the same lines
"You take the blonde, I'll take the one in the toiban."
"Don't. Put. The candle. Back!"

And when I cant keep my eyelids up any longer
(In my dreams I never slept the night before)
it fades into a memory
I curl up in your arms
(You'd hold me for seventeen lifetimes if I wanted)
and you're content with twirling the purple highlights in my hair
because it doesnt bother you that I'm still a virgin
and I plan on keeping it that way for a while yet, dangit
it's so very PG
(There'll be a kissing scene later)

But daydreams cant last forever
(unfortunately)
Soon enough my pretty greeen eyes will flutter open
My Imagination Muse will fly away
on the back of one of the soaring falcons
(Remember them?)
and I'll roll off the sufficiently tearstained pillow
eyes following one of the glow-in-the-dark stars on my fan
(I'll let it go around six times before I get dizzy)
I'll pull over the stuffed white tiger that I decided against naming after you
(He's starting to get a little flattened around the middle)
and hold him exactly the same way I always do
so the faux fur just above his neck on the right side
will catch my tears until I doze off again

In an hour or so, I'll wake up with my eyes still red
I'll stumble into the kitchen
The two percent milk won't even know what hit it
and I'll drink
(L'Chaim!)
To life.
To love.

To You.
(Is it over now?)