When I look at you,
I'm looking into a still blue lake.
Seeing a reflection,
Not identical to me,
Yet, underneath,
The meaning is still the same.

The words you speak,
Are the words I write.

When I look at you,
I see a river.
A flowing that never ceases.
Spreading love in many branches.
Your silence, your actions,
Have strong undercurrents.

Back and forth on a timeless time machine.
I walk to the edge and see a field of flowers.
The field goes on for miles, stunning in it's vastness.
Every single flower is purple.
Not the same shade of purple, but every shade, magnificent in its rainbow of purple.
Dark purples.
Light purples.
Purples close to blue.
Purples close to pink.
Purples so dark they near black.
Lilac purple.
Lavender purple.
Every purple you can imagine and then some.
These flowers are not just one kind of flower either.
There are carnations, roses, lilies, daisies, every kind of flower you've ever heard of and then some you haven't.
These flowers take over my vision and consume my mind so that all I see is flowers, and purple.
But, as I peer closer, I spot one flower that is a different.
That flower appears to destroy the beautiful effect of all the purple.
But it doesn't.
That single flower is a bright, crimson red.
The color of horror flick blood.
It's a vibrant dahlia flower.
The petals cascade violently over each other, craving my notice.
Craving the euphoria of touch.
I sympathize with that flower.
I, too, knew that craving.
I, too, knew the craving of another's touch.