the sky reflects its hopes and dreams upon the oceans, turning it into a deep blue like the color of his eyes.
those hopeful dreams you'll never see, not really, you glaze elsewhere towards endings and beginning flicking through the pages
because middles are full of too much - too much emotion, too much love, and hate and everything in between.
you place the book back on a dusty shelf, but you never really forget it. you try your hardest to pretend your fingertips never brushed against the yellowing pages that would've crumbled if not for the fact that you're the most gentle person I know, soft like snow against dying leaves in the winter, caressing them until spring kisses them back to life.
seasons change but my ocean will always be blue, even when the sun drowns itself in the horizon and bleeds vermilion into the water.
you are brighter than every sunken sunset that caresses the shipwrecks you wish you were abroad some nights and some days; the epitome of warmth, calming like a lake's tranquility but always so distant like the depths of jewels buried long ago sleeping in river beds.
maybe i write about bodies of water too often because i want to drown and have someone to hold me but you're one of the few people that pulls me above the waters surface and onto a boat which floats away from regret to somewhere with more color than simply blue even though simply blue is enough;
blue will always be enough.
it will be enough to fill in the gaps between stars on this endless canvas of existence and never mind the paint stains on my hands, they're just another reminder that your existence touched mine,
and despite everything, and no matter what, i will never attempt to wash them off in those blue oceans we are all drifting away in.
my words begin to run dry as the paint on my body.
even in silence, nothing feels like it's about to end, you are the cusp of existence and you're taking me with you off into a horizon of better days;
but anything where you exist will always be what people call 'better days'.