Talking to you feels a lot like being Alice in Wonderland— I have all these questions and you're an open book with all the words done backwards in a language I have never before met.
I want to know the world you hide behind your eyelids, the true story behind the lies that effortlessly fall from your lips, and about the dreams you had to kill because reality said that you can't have them.
You paint yourself in the eyes of many as someone callow and petty when in truth, your depth is just as unfathomable as the deepest ocean— you allow the world to only skim your surface and not much deeper.
I'm not afraid of drowning, not when I know that it's you. Who needs air anyway when I can just breathe you in; now, won't you please let me in?
