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.