Today I woke up wondering
the same thing I've been pondering
and why it made no sense to know
the temperature of falling snow;
the world is full of greater things than this.
When I grow old, will I forget
to prick my finger once, to let
the blood run out and feather
through my sheets?
What if I can't count to left
on day when I fall out of bed,
or don't recall which letters
add to three?
I won't be me.
And if I can't divide by blue,
I really won't know what to do;
it's so cliché to play life
by the rules.
I'd give the falling raindrops names
if you weren't so wary of my games,
and I wish you'd take the square root
of the moon.
You could join me, too.
I'm tired of this wondrous world
reduced to arches, loops, and whorls;
why can't a hand just be
a hand, my dear?
Forget the fingerprints, sweet darling,
let the past abscond on starlings;
I'll never meet your gaze
with eyes of fear.
I want you near.
Tonight I'll sleep quite restlessly
because I love you so defenselessly,
and the nonsense creeps into
my waking dreams—
but I don't mind a twisted truth,
what more could I expect of youth?
Only insanity is exactly
as it seems.
It's all I need.