Amorphous

Who am I
to keep believing
that the Earth
will stop turning
just because
I keep those
moments with you
in a glass jar?

But I always hear
your footsteps echo
in the hallway-
as if
they are melodies
filled with
dulcet but
melancholic memories
that make
my poetry dance.

I will never want
your gentle smile
be clouded
with worries.
But do you know
that fairytales are
Surrealist paintings?

Sorrowful
is the thought
that I will never
be able to
see you anymore.
Lovely
is the prince
who makes
me believe
in fairytales.

But
Happy-ever-after
is only
for daydreamers;
my poetry
doesn't daydream,
so do I...

Fairytales
will never care
if this poem is

amorphous.