I like to think that the real world doesn't contain color;
That it is only by mechanisms of human interpretation
That we attribute green to new budding life on spring branches,
And pink to the under bellies of clouds in winter sunsets.

That it has been developed by our species like language
In our race to improve human experience
Created as we were pushed forward by human nature.

I like to think of human nature as the only constant,
Human nature as the driving force behind nature itself.
Nature, which we have always taken as greater than ourselves,
But what can be greater than we
When we are the determiners
Of what we see around us?

Who can draw a line between perception and reality
When we can only perceive our own separate realities in truth?
A line we've never crossed to draw our own conclusions
Is to allude to the possibility that what we see isn't reality,
That reality is really only our means of defining
The parameters of our lives,
Colorless or otherwise.

it's strange
to see a river spring into being
violently churning
but without sound
to see sticks and even trees swept away down its length
but not feel its current's tugging pull

you wonder whether the river is real
or nothing but an imagined torrent

but the waves lapping at your feet cannot lie

I'm looking down a forested path
Winter white
clings to the rich brown branches
And misty fog
hangs like heavy hope in the air

sun shines
seemingly brighter
than its typical summer rays
As it is reflected
in crystalline daggers

The atmosphere
is set for a jovial run to the end
But I only wish
that I was at that foggy gray expanse
between the trees
seemingly too tight together
farther on

I want to be there
Yet the trip is unimaginable
The snowy ground
sparkling in the sun impassible
Clinging snow
sure to weigh on my feet
Causing me to break
one more perfect surface of white
as my last act

The greatest of distances separated us,
but being abrasive at best,
our two rougher edges always sparked.
Even when friendly,
a side conversing of judgement
and not-quite-resentment
kept the parameters of conversation
shallow and narrow minded.

Deeper inference
caused interference
like static in my mind,
and short circuits were common
even in the most civil of discussions
common to other circles.

Round and round,
wishes to connect and
a secret bid for volatile collision
kept us chasing,
while a wary voice forced us to stay separated
like magnets pushing and pulling.

Never did two people
hate so many common things
and yet repulse each other so completely.

You're asleep
As I pace floors
Circling
Not needing the cliche to think
Because I know what I should say to you

You're asleep
Because you need your rest
And on a recovery bed from emotional scars left by yours truly,
Maybe that's justified.

I'm awake,
Because this mind doesn't rest
My skin doesn't scar
And my recovery bed is the pacing, as I recover from emotional scars left by yours truly.

Pacing
I've been thinking
About what you told me
I've been thinking about
how We have to talk about the thing
That happened when we were new and didnt know consequence

When recovery beds were not needed and even scorned

And you have to realize I'm trying to comply with your tell-all policy
And I hate to nag you
And you know I'm not this person who drags  back up
A warning flare burning for  yesterday
So I'm sorry; you're welcome.

I've been thinking about how my accidental mistake brought iron fist repercussions and threats
And now when you have a cold-thought fault I have presented you not with rebuke but apologies and
"Just make sure you're okay"

It hurts not to hurt
Skin that doesn't scar itches
And I choke on blood from internal bleeding where I've managed to lay my scars every time I open my mouth to say "I'm okay with it"
I'm not. Obviously.

The iron in my blood has grown too heavy
The only sensation
I have
is anxiety:
the about-to-jump uneasiness of limb
without the adrenaline.
The lump in your throat
almost heartburn like heart ache
but aches have faded to numbness.
I'm dumb.
And founded on this quiet existence
of waiting for the next hill to climb.
Wryly smiling
at the slightest hint of a plateau
and shattering its mirage.
A barrage is barring the beatings of a heart
that I've often questioned existentially
in nights as dark as my thoughts
and equally as empty.
Every relief
stands in cold contrast
to all my other anxieties-
building up their mounds
to amounts unspeakable
in the crowded, concentrated ball
which has made it's way to my throat.
It's heavy.