Three letters
That together
Make
A beginning
A middle
An end

You

Loving you was like I jumped on a train at the last second; the doors sliding behind me and I almost missed it, the carriage that held you. As I took a seat I noticed you there, sat reading a book, holding a sweet smile across rose tinted cheeks, the glasses you wear hanging tightly atop your nose. I never want to leave. I stop, start staring like an idiot and its obvious how I feel, but you haven’t noticed my existence. The book is written by someone who stole your heart and even though I hope you finish it before my stop I know you can’t. I just wish you’d have looked up. Just once, at me. I wish you’d have seen what I’d seen looking at you one last time as I stepped off the carriage and onto a platform that lead somewhere you would never know. Somewhere we would never be.

You see, I write but no one listens
And it’s hard
In a world where so many do.
So many express.
Depress.
Not because they feel the world needs to understand them
Not because they throw a blanket of empathy around them
Not because the real world doesn’t appreciate their detail
But because it’s all a get rich quick scheme.
A sale.
But I don’t care for nepotism.
I don’t care if you’re waiting for me to like your ‘quirks’.
I don’t care that if I don’t you won’t like mine.
Because that’s how it works.
A trade.
A shame.
Someone always ‘sacrificing’ by being the first in the game of it
But that’s not a sacrifice
The sacrifice is not caring.
Liking something because you like it
Living life because that’s what you want to do with it
Freely sharing
Being a good person for no benefit.
Not out of fear that others won’t give you what you need.
Not out of fear it won’t let you be what you want to be.
Happiness is not found in the wants or greeds of others
But in listening to your own heart
And knowing
Deep down
What you do for you is all that matters.
Then when you’re loved by people for your truth
There is nothing better.

So be a good person
Listen to this work
Like it
Please
Because if you don’t
I doubt I’ll like yours

Like a hammer that’s too short.
Like a wall that feels lacking.
Like a land of giants, vanished.
Like a god among gods who aren’t your own.
Perfect in an imperfect world or

imperfect in a perfect world;
your imperfection shown.

Yggdrasil overgrown and all the options leave you empty.
At first nine worlds seem plenty
but soon you hope for twenty,
finding no treasures tempting.
Your desires in the waters 

of three holy wells reflecting
a thing that seems calm and collected:
an ending to the ending;
soft but not,

like a pillow made of rock,
you rest your head upon
the thought of Ragnarök.

A Story of guilt.
Not for him, for us.
Vincent.

Strokes and flicks,
Glides of guilded golds
Hushed in the Blues,
Innocence in the Greens;
Boldly infused oils
Spilling out on a canvas;
A legacy built on
Sorrow. Toil. Turmoil.
Who with dark indents on a page shaded in
Shadows showed
Work. Work, work,
Constant work.
A Starry Night’s muse.
All the while cowards saying they always
Knew,
Always loved,
Always loving
Vincent.