you're like a reoccuring theme, a reoccuring dream that comes in with the winter snow.
brightly colored lights flash their reminders past holidays and it's not exactly something that i can just take a break from.
i've been trapped on this train of thought that repeatedly brings me to the same conclusion of a destination: you were destined to be a work of art. the supporting evidence to this includes your eyes, a lighter, more mesmerizing shade of baby blue than the world has ever held before, a tone that is too impossible to be ordinary. you draw us in, the boys with the books, poised and prepared to write your silhouette down into words that sound beautiful enough together to fully live up to the potential you have, simply from living and breathing.
we all get down on our knees before you and beg that you'll desire one of us, and we fully believe that we have a chance. you feed the flame because you are sympathetic and when you smile at us we can't help but fall for you over and over again. you bathe in the attention, and then you drop us with a single word and send us spiraling into a black hole for the years to come.
but still, we continue to string letters together with you in mind, staring up at you with irreplaceable adoration. and we welcome this new low to appreciate you from because it's just another story for us to tell.
after all, isn't that what we live for?