Fuck

This was your canvas, you painted a portrait you hated, blamed the painting and covered your signature. No one touched the paintbrush but you, so why do you blame the blue and purple hue?

Sometimes it isn’t in the middle of the night when you’re breaking down. Sometimes the suns coming up and the birds start to sing and you roll over and the spot you used to be embraced by love and security is now just a cold half of the sheets and you can’t help but feel your throat burn and your eyes water. You try to find a way to numb the reality while the rest of the world wakes up but nothing could ever compare to looking into sea blue eyes with bed head smiling at the first thing they saw when they woke up, you. The fingertip dances through their hair, you can feel it now but they’re not there. And at this point you don’t know if you are either, you only know you don’t want to be anywhere without them. Not even in a life that exists without them.