In the desolation when I think of you,
I feel like embracing fire.
Black, red, destructive.
In the noise when I think of you, I feel like holding a rose.
Beautiful, dainty, painful.
At night when I think of you, I feel like holding a bent book.
Broken, imperfect, indifferent.
In the morning when I think of you, I feel like looking at the sun.
Prism, untouchable, poison.
You are the sun, and I am the eyes,
taking in every ounce of pain just to see your light.
Aug 9, 2017
Aug 9, 2017 at 2:22 AM UTC
In the desolation when I think of you,
I feel like embracing fire.
Black, red, destructive.
In the noise when I think of you, I feel like holding a rose.
Beautiful, dainty, painful.
At night when I think of you, I feel like holding a bent book.
Broken, imperfect, indifferent.
In the morning when I think of you, I feel like looking at the sun.
Prism, untouchable, poison.
You are the sun, and I am the eyes,
taking in every ounce of pain just to see your light.
