Bruises turn to scars,
but memories never fade,
my soul weeps in silence for this love,
why do I stay?

Princes don't exist in my narrative,
no magic wand, no mysterious old woman.
no happily ever after ending.
My narrative is no fairy tale,

My narrative is,
you looking into my eyes,
      you touching my skin,
           6 a.m. coffee, full of tired complaints,
playing house, yells , laughs, tears and screams.
You by my side, it is no fairy tale, it is just real life
and that is alright.

Colorless time,
blank canvas without you,
only full of memory,
memory that invents you,
memory that recreates you,
in each stroke of longing.

Strokes of gray,
amongst the hills of the dying,
decrepit, silent, agony filled hills,
late train, filled with certainty,
to find you once more in the promise land.

Strokes of red,
longing for your voice,
and your ardent touch,
rosy red lips, amongst my skin.

Strokes of Black,
slow death, undeserved death
daggers on the back, from the treatment that was your "saving"
absent from your being.

Stroke of Purple,
stars, vapor clouds, constellations painted of your embrace
amongst pill induced dreams, false reality
false hope and false love,
but true longing which craves for your love again.

The breaking of day,
   your sweaty hand,
        and warm embrace,
           no ***, no words, no sound,
                 just two souls cojoined for a moment in time.  
                              its l̶o̶v̶e̶

"why do you dress up?"
my heart dropped, in that moment I knew. . .
I was not a lover, your muse or your dream.
I was your o̶b̶j̶e̶c̶t̶

Blue, iridescent hues of oceanic blue.
Green, startling twinkles of fauna,
Brown, strong mountains of emotions,
Black, losing my self in your abyss.

Such beautiful e̶y̶e̶s̶, that see me.
Within their reflections, I see myself
lost, broken, damaged, quick to fall into their spell.