the slow art of breathing bitter

But Mostly, You

When I was twelve,

A constant buzzing shot everywhere I went.

Splashes of grey and smokes of black;

They were an illness for all.

But to me,

it was my home where

I could dream forever of forgotten pleasures,

And time could repeat itself

'til our eyes and arms would scour in pain.

The butterfly's wings never bent in December.

And that's how it's been all along–

Colorless paintings of mirth and melancholy;

But mostly, you.

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A/N: Are colors fading away? Oh no! Someone, please color the star yellow before moving on... Thanks! :)