Gray puffs of dust keep my vision clouded.
Varied hues of your personality keep me safely grounded.
I can hardly pick a favorable color I like best.
Every transition is a new gift to be had, even with the horrid, the tiring, and the bad.
Reminiscing on all the classically dashing things you use to say.
Phrases I couldn't tear my head away from even if I tried.
Making anything with you always held such importance in my brain.
I cannot pinpoint exactly, most times inexplicable and faulty.
But still I continue.
Even creating a new you from scratch, with memory stitch, and a fabricated sash.
You are mine, forever contained in my picture book, reverie of a mind.
I won't give you up to the gremlins and blood thirst characters that you constantly identify yourself with.
I couldn't live, fathom a life with something so grotesque and predictable from the human race.
You're better than that, at least that's what my heart repeatedly convinces me to believe, having doubt is so easy, but blind faith a gift from grace.
Refusing to allow such triumphant from the darker side of you, I'll wait for the earthly abundance of flowery lust, and gratitude for my patience.
Not a single full night of sleep, not a morning without thought of you returning, the better and more trusting side, the one that kisses and doesn't miss all sinful dreams or look for catastrophic fiends to group himself with.
Just a soft and honest optimist.
I won't give up until I get that wish.