Sometimes I wonder:

Is it just my overactive imagination

that sparks these thoughts inside my head,

thoughts that are dangerous, precarious dreams,

ready to be shattered at the slightest disappointment;

for want of acknowledgement, a joke, your smile,

I fall through the paper-thin essence of my dreams,

falling forever, an exquisite eternal agony—

until you suddenly turn to me with a grin on your face,

and my papier-mâché fantasy begins to rebuilt itself

into a greater, higher, and more grand façade

from which it will be all the more heartbreaking

to fall.