Beyond the passion of colour the wind is crawling over trees clawing at loose clothing and things not tethered or secure. Beyond empathic words uttered it sings hollow and then a full roar settling its breath to a sigh as it dies beyond the texture it brings. With nothing to mark its existance except thee.
your love runs dry it always rains you’re the reason for my worst days the blues I choose the shades of gray you paint the sky on my darkest days I hate you most but I hate the way you’re still the sun on my perfect days