Will this ever stop?

When the baffling question bugs me every night as to why life suddenly became a movie I can view in orange-tinted glasses, that maybe this story could be a lot different from what I imagined.
I know I love warm tones and romanticizing afternoons despite the heat and the hot air flowing through the window, but how come moments past 2 pm feel warmer when you're around?
When the sky feels too blue, I could feel my lips slowly arch as we cross the bridge that shaded us from the sun's daring judgment.
When the moments feel too quiet, I cannot comprehend why, all of a sudden, I finally see you for who you are, raw and real.
Young and a bit impulsive.
Imperfect yet the closest to good a person has ever been.
When all this time I've confused annoyance with envy and love with admiration, but love is no fairy tale, and you're no hero.
I hate how your good points are your flaws.
I've painted myself bad, and next to you, I've never looked rougher and blander.


For I cannot confide all of these, I write to you in secret hoping this will be the last.