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It seems that you’ve been born anew in a sphere long distorted by crimson and blue, and each day I pray that the headlines are far from your future.
I lived for your oils, acrylics, pastels. Reds, blues, and yellows for koi and seashells, but I fear that the colors you see now are far from the peace of the paintings you dreamed of.
It seems that I’ve been trapped inside of a brain I’m afraid ot overanalyze, but it’s been gutted and prodded and poked like the heart that I carved out.
It’s got a face made of wax, a grinning horrified mask that illuminates just like a ruby. The candle inside that I light keeps me warm through the night as the wick wears down quick to its stem.
Dear, I fear my intentions were unclear. The life that I chose includes choice. I could lend you my skin but the warmth from within is from something so much deeper.
The saffron you met in July and the sapphire indigo dye don’t hold a candle to the rose red you painted my face that day you left, you left like a coward.
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