Riddles, Star-Speckled Nights, and Underwater Fireflies

I swim in the midst of strawberry seas,
bubble waves washing over my 
golden head,
my broken mind. 

I sing in streets of lilies,
begging you to come outside
of your glass palace that you sit in all day—
a palace I have never seen,
but one I wish I could explore. 

I dance in the mossy, plentiful ruins 
you’ve left behind,
and I wonder if my heart is as raspberry-colored
as yours was. 

You ask for colors and paintings,
so I’ll give you my bursting thoughts. 

Do you not see the ice cream deserts
and cherry blossom meadows
that lie in front of you? 
You have the world,
so why would you leave it
for another? 

Do you not remember those star-speckled nights,
when the world seemed to still
and we were all that was left?

Do you not remember
how you made me laugh 
like no one else ever has?

We played in lukewarm water
lit by underwater fireflies
and swarming in the colors of happiness. 

My mind is a tangled abyss
of memories of you,
of hot pink sugar plums
and dazzling maps that you talk of. 

My words do not make sense to you,
I know. 
I write in riddles for you to decode;
riddles you will never see,
I know. 

I envy the minds of toddlers.
I envy their immense concentration, 
I envy their ability to lose interest 
in a matter of seconds. 
They create worlds inside of our world—
I am forced to create worlds 
inside of my caged mind.