Was it wrong to dream of tragedy?
Of a smile so bright, it could ignite us like a sun,
so sweet that even our morning star envied its beauty,
yet so enraptured that he dared not say a word, that could break its peace.
So was it wrong to dream of paradise, of wonderland?
To hope for time to stop and gift us a melody of silence that could lull us to sleep again?
Yet when I think of our end,
I think only of you,
my darling, my love, my used-to-be dream.
No longer capable of reaching wonderland,
with our crowded minds and empty hearts.
Our waiting home, lost like a childhood in a sea full of todays that we called living once.
Still we were, we stayed, we played the game we knew we'd lose,
because of hope, of envy,
because of those that found heaven amongst themselves.
But in envy lies our weakness that brings us to our honest grave.
So why all of this?
Well, because we're human, are we not?
And we dream of forgetting that we are,
so that we wouldn't have to live with ourselves anymore.
And so you danced me into oblivion that night, I almost fell in love again,
with the sea, and the stars, and with life itself.
It was enough for me, because I knew nothing was forever,
because you tried to give me eternity in what felt like seconds,
and that happened as commonly as almost never.
But with every letter came its 'sincerely yours'
and for each day that ends,
I think about one I started with you,
my darling, my love, my grown Alice.
We've become shadows of our once so luminescent selves,
resting in the night with out dreams and hopes and wishes,
like old companions,
drinking and drowning in a set of cards,
waiting for dawn to come again.