I spill myself in ink at night,
the thoughts I dare not keep.
More truth than I could bear in light,
I pour them out in sleep.
When sunlight comes, I scratch the truth
and call the night a dream,
with cherries fading from my mouth,
till dawn dims out the gleam.
Why do I hide within myself,
and hold the heartache in?
Each truth sits neatly on a shelf
where no one dares begin.
Why must I always be the one—
always the one to open up, always bare,
undoing myself for someone
who doesn't know, and doesn't care?
She never asks. I never stop.
One of us has to—but I won't.
Why is it always mine to carry—
this weight she doesn't see?
I know I shouldn't. Still I tarry,
held by someone who isn't holding me.
She drifts in and out like the moon,
while my heart stays here, calls her a boon.
There's something in the way she speaks—
enchanting, like an eclipse.
Why does my name sound sweeter on her lips?
With every word she says, my thawing heart skips.
Her presence always felt like home—
afraid it's just a dream, I roam
through all I've ever known.
Perhaps I'll leave the past alone
and let the dream stay whole.
A fragile happiness I've known
beats having none at all.
And so the pen finds me again,
the page my only gleam—
the cherries ripen in my dreams,
not tasting what they seem.
