My dreams are no longer my dreams,

I’m afraid.

They outline my thoughts—

flickery, unsacred.

All the adjectives you can gather

may partially describe them.

And this is what I’m daunted by:

the unraveling of passion,

the type of passion that wakes me

and sends a jaunty chill down my spine.

It is something so hot that it turns cold,

and to dislike that is regular,

but I am not.

I bask in the insomnia that lingers in the air,

the air that rests at the foot of my bed—

a holy place turned unfulfilling,

because it does not build me up like it used to,

but more so breaks me down

and does not own the time to fix me.

The melody of nature rings to and fro,

and she lays all of her energy in the wings of a moth—

merely a defective butterfly.

She remains in my reach, taunting continually,

escaping through the gaps between my fingers.

She sits on my windowsill,

battery of stardust.

I leave offerings of the utmost value,

and she trades them for her short-lived presence.

I plead to be blessed.

As of late, I’ve encountered her less and less.

Primarily, I believed that she had surrendered at long last

and labeled me a basket case.

Until the fateful day when a monarch butterfly left a note at my door:

“Infrequency is in the air;

it has changed me,

maybe it shall do the same to you”