I was the wind and I, I brushed past you. You seized to notice, crying inside the beautiful bubble formed by the strings of your withered perception. I stayed for a moment, taking hostage in the trees, whispering to you, whining to you and you’d look at me with rose-tinted glasses and sigh, for I wasn’t yours to breathe. Or so you’d believe.
I was the peacock with a tapestry for wings, and when it would rain, I would hide my tears with an upward gaze and shadow my face with the brilliance of vivid pastel shades. They had been carefully embroidered to please – and distract. You’d look on from a distance and lament, for my joy was not yours to share, my beauty not yours to feel. You’d go back to sleep in the warmth of your covers while I, I’d pretend to dance in the rain for a glimpse of your glazed, lonely smile.
You were someone who would never find the white daisy in a field of swamp, a daisy which yearned to be plucked by you from the dirt.