I am tired of the dishonesty in the blue
The tiredness in the grey
The snobbishness in the green
Disinterest and false warmth of brown
Distracted hazel eyes

I want eyes like rainbows
To carry me away

I love you
I really do

So much that I have to stay away
Even if without you my world is grey

Afraid of hurting you
I don't wish to make you feel blue

I reject all food, my agony unseen
If I do eat it'll come back up green

I feel many colors but the only ones in sight
Are black and grey and white

The voices in my head
Make me only want to see red

And although I love you
It's better that we're through

Grey days are when the clouds puff a tantrum,
Smoking the sky out of its cozy, azure, play-space
With a big fuzzy blanket that covers the high plains,
And no holes for the blue to poke through.

Occasionally, they spout out their tears
And pelt the poor people below
With a loaded water pistol.

And such people sprout out umbrellas,
Or search for storm's shelter,

Yet one person always prefers to drown in clouds' melancholy.

He is as hopeless as flying a kite made of clouds.
Now, some may say that that was impossible, improbable.
Some may even call it magical.
He did not see it that way.

In his eyes, he was as useful as a fraying rope.
Always on the edge of breaking,
Unstable.

His chest felt empty,
As if the dust left from his shattered heart had finally blown away.
The only thing there was his ribcage,
Trapping lungs that barely worked.

He believed he was hopeless.

To her, that was not the case.

She took his soul and painted grey and blue skies,
And used her own soul to glue him back together.

She flew her cloud kite proudly through the sky,
Doing tricks and running with it,
Smiling the whole time.

He is as hopeless as flying a kite made of clouds.

He is not hopeless.

The flames were extinguished after night storm, leaving only ashes and smells of smoke.