In my first sighting of you,
I painted a picture I could not erase,
a canvas of disdain—your dress, your gait,
the way your laughter danced like light,
your long hair, a glowing shroud,
your bronze skin, kissed by the sun,
and the flowers you nurtured,
while I, a ghost of my own mind,
waged war against my garden,
killing blooms for the weight I carry,
the burden of looking at lives not my own.
Yet, in the depths of my heart,
I found admiration where hatred once thrived.
I never craved your light;
I like my eggs with edges burnt,
my garden a desolate expanse,
but in this solitude, I am not alone.
What I know is a quiet truth,
that to admit my feelings is to drown
into the depths of my own despair,
but I write this, inspired by the
long shadows of your existence,
a reflection of my own tangled soul.