He is a violet that bloomed in November.
Purple where he should be wilted, that boy is an enigma; his eyes said everything sarcasm could never relay.
If his affection was the light that fueled my confidence, it was senseless to believe he was capable of showing the rain he drowned in.
I wish I knew to ask if he was well-kept. I’d have dug myself up to make room for that boy, even when it poured until we were blue.