I could get lost in the beatuy of your eyes

Compare the, to the beatuy of nature

Crystal blue lakes, perciuos gems

I could say they remind me of home

Of feeling safe

Call your eyes bright as the stars

 

I could descibe your voice

Call it silk or cream

Say it draws me in

Your hair, I could say,

Curleed like that of the back of a lamb

 

I could call you a work of art

Each and every feature, its own painting

Dig out every cliched simile.

 

But I won't.

 

Not beatuy. Nor grace.

But lilac colored skies

blocked by thick and grey fog

 

Lively tree bark

Covered in mold and panic.

Hyperventitalting in the night.

Shaking hands and sweaty palms.

 

Toxic fumes rising from the prettiest of flowers.

Death crawling on all fours.

Pain.

Nightmares dressed in laces and shame.

 

Your well intended fear. My fragile paranoia.

No malicous intention-Just fatal mistakes

"It's not you. It's me."

Yes and no.

 

Yes. You couldn't handle me. Not as I am. You couldn't take me as is.

Not without the searing pain of change.

 

No. It's me.

Always me.

My ugly intrails against your indescribable beatuy.

 

It's not you. It's me.