I like to watch them, as they fold gently, Into newly found realms, Of softened happiness. Scents of lavender, and milkweed, Blaming their aches, Until they fade away.
I am selfish enough, To seek comfort in them, I am selfish enough, To pretend I am part of them.
Part of this ever growing bubble, That is verging on delirium.
But I am not, I know I am not. This I hope, Will be unnoticed.
It's easy to mimic, Or fake your behaviour, If the outline of what, You hope to achieve, is merely, A heartbeat away from you,
It's easy to colour, between the lines, Even if my pencil, is shaded melancholy blue.