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(pt1) dreaming of a perhaps |
i used to look at you like you painted the canvas for the moon with sepian tinges as a beginning β anything but white, for you refused it to reflect your mind β then proceeding to fill its emptiness with the colours of love. red, is what they told me. yellow, is what you taught me. just like the way all your canvases looked like they were dipped in amber-hues seas. β β β i used to look at you like you gave life to the night by making stars rain on your canvas, a gleaming crescent as a comforting smile for the readers of art (i was the reader, one you lured so easily, one who found comfort in the silence of night). β β β β β β πππ ππππππ ππ ππππ β β β πππππππ πππππ-π πππππ πππππππ β β β πππππ πππππππ ππππ ππππππππ πππππ β β β πππ πππππ π ππππ π ππππ β β β i used to look at you like you were a mirage weaved within the constellations i couldnβt see, but now i look at you like you belong where youβve always been. far from me, but right beside me. i used to imagine the twinkle of your eyes in the aureate sheen of moon petals, but now i see you counting sunflower petals beside me. β β β β β β β β β β β [ perhaps ] β β β β β β πππ ππππππππππ π, ππππ ππ πππ β β β πππππππππβ ππππππ πππ ππ πππ β β β ππππππππππππ ππ ππππ ππ πππππππ β β β πππ πππππππ ππππππππ π πππππππ β β β ππππππ ππ ππππππππ πππ ππππππ ππ πππ β β β ππ ππ πππ π πππππππ β β β |