"He was not unwhole, merely bent and jaded. And though he held nothing but love for those around him, the darker details bled through. Hindered from an honest delivery of his gratefulness and his grievance, he withdrew into himself.
The darker facets fulfilled his quiet desires of complexity but cost him his emotional presence; cold but comfortable.
He lost his happiness, his memories,
His charm, and above all else,
He lost his time.
His eyes grew sad,
His fingers wrinkled.
Though his eyes remained sharp,
His heart had been lost to atrophy.
Another person to love more than anyone could love him, is what he wanted, but never got.
To fall in love again was the escape,
An open and powerful rebellion against the vast sorrow that imprisoned him.
And so he tried his hand, sad eyes sought for someone to pour into.
He found none, but some found him.
Twisted and attractive, they wove together long conversations and hints of double meanings. They even almost learned how to care, but didn't.
Even among those he wished only to love, and only to gift,
He could never feel free.
For they hated him,
And so did he."
but when he looked at his pitiful reflection on the floor, he noticed something a little less bleak. the mop was as a rose, twirling and spreading, inking, and swelling. it was really nothing like a rose. what a drab day, what a drag.