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.
