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.

Even when you’re deformed beyond recognition,
I shall cherish every distorted fragment of you.
I will restore each shattered piece
to fall in love with you anew.
In solitude's darkness, I shall breathe no more,
yearning only for the moment
our souls entwine once more.

In my solitude, I glimpsed a light I could not escape,  
Your laughter danced softly over my shoulder,  
Like the time I said I could never paint—  
And you, with a tender touch,
Held my hand and said,  
"I am the greatest masterpiece you'll ever create."  

I lost my way in your gaze;  
You told me it was I who brought you to life.  

White paint was out of reach, so my canvas stayed untamed.  
Red ran dry, so I bled deep to paint you unstained.  
Your hair brushed in black, a portrait unchained.  
I shaped your hands to mirror mine,  
So when I sought comfort,  
Yours would be the warmth I craved.

But now I search in desperate despair,  
To find the sketch of you in the back of my head.
It was all in my mind—engraved.  
So when I rot and fade away,  
You will remain beyond decay.