You’re a work of art, painted with such delicacy in every stroke. Each mark ad every texture making you up to be your own uniqueness. 

The only person though who can ever full understand a piece of art, is the person that created it. Only the artist knows what went into every brush stroke.

I gave you so much. I took so much care when I painted you, when I sculpted you into what you are. I made you,
and you can’t escape your maker.

I hope it scares you to think the marks I left might never be changed.

I hope you know they will be forever there.

I’m the only one that understands those marks.

I’m the one who left them.

Left them upon your skin.

I am your artist.

and you,

are my art.

When I look at you, you are all I see,

everything else is lost,

for that very short time when our eyes meet,

the world is overcast,

by clouds of darkness and swirls of colour,

by sounds so muffled, so loud, yet unclear,

by feelings, felt, so immense and so strong,

yet I know that right here is where I belong.

I cannot see the busy streets

full of people passing by,

I cannot see the birds that fly

high up in this sky.

When we touch it is only you I feel,

there is nothing else around,

just you, just me, just us, just we,

not a movement, nor a sound.

I rest my head upon your shoulder,

I hear you take a breath,

I shut my eyes, I hold you tight,

we stand here breast to breast.

But as I hold, things start to change,

the world is flying back,

I can see past your bogus smile,

your pedestal starts to crack.

The swirls which clouded up my mind

are starting to disappear,

as I see the world in this new light,

I do not want you here!

The pain you caused; the tears I cried,

went un-noticed for too long,

I see that bird, in this nights sky,

he sings a different song,

a song of hurt, sadness and despair,

my heart, it is throbbing, it is so hard to bear.

where now? What direction; turn back or go on,

neither will let my feelings be gone.

I love you more than I could ever love myself

but will miss you less as time goes by

that bird that was our love has stopped flying;

he is tired and ready to die.

That’s how it should be </3