VEIL'D MELANCHOLY.

II - MAYBE HE WILL BE GREY TOMORROW. MAYBE HE WILL BE GONE WHEN WINTER COMES.

I see him from the corner of my eye. He is amber, today. Yesterday he was green. I have started to believe that his skin changes colours like the season. I walk ten steps, and find the root of his movements. If you abide in amber hues, then that is what I'll bathe myself in. He potters through my veins, and whenever I try to reach out for his hand, the world around me starts to blur. I place my limbs where his had been, and I pray to the heavens above, that he doesn't notice my embossment. I hope I don't bleed into his skin, yet I hope his colours bleed into mine. Is this what it feels like to admire art from afar? When you want to touch, but you're one step too far. Perhaps, one step too close. Maybe it is the need to step back, that I need to put into action. Maybe, you're best lionised from a distance. I envy how you make all your colours seem like they branch out from the end of a sunset and set like dew drops on wilted petals. Is it envy or desire? What is it that takes over me? Such an overbearing, virulent emotion. If it were to be envy, then why do I fall apart in my own skin every time you turn around. Every time you turn around and don't look back. Do you not understand that you cause me pain? Do you not understand that you're the bane of my suffering? I carve out pieces of myself to feed you. Bring me what I have lost. Bring me your grisly truths, and the untaxing lies. Bring it to me, and riddle yourself in my solitude. Fleeting, floating. You're here, you're not. I love you, but I do not. Who was I? Who was I before you left me with the feeling of infinity and my own remains in hand? Before you gave me the taste of an illusive life that exists only in states of inebriation. I fall down on my knees. I strive, I struggle, I beg for a moment of raw satisfaction. He is like solid thoughts on torn paper. He exists under the whispered mellows, and lets olive branches cast a shadow upon his blanche skin. Is that your flesh or ivory draping? The same draping, that I have spent endless nights envisioning to be wrapped in. The same drapery which would enshrine my being. The same draping within which you exist. I look at you, and I see an end. An end to a beginning, a beginning to an end. There is chaos. There is peace. There is you and there is me.