The Colours of Self

This is my skin but I can’t say I’ve met her.

No-one has met me yet.

No-one really knows her either.

I’m too scared to face the world and so is she.

The tale of two cities; I live in constant transit.
I nurture with excessive love, catering to pleasure and the provision of absolute support.
I function from strength, monochromatic decisions and absolute definitions.

The pursuit of divine sovereignty seems to linger in my atmosphere like a belt of stars on a clear, dark night.

To unite these cities under a single rule, the colours of self.

Maybe, but definitely sometimes.

My darling,

The dust dances in the golden streams of sunlight, as if time is slowed.
Flooding the room with warmth, this moment feels comfortable.
White-washed window frames, high ceilings and glass French doors.
The scent of warm wood and fresh spring blooms fill the room.

Here is where my mind escapes the madness.
The overwhelming presence of my reality.
The battle between who I know I am and who I think I am.
I’m at war – fighting for freedom from my demons.

You meet me there; somewhere vast and full of space, secrets.
I dream of you while I’m awake.
We talk, you’re there, and you’re bound by my lost regret and unfulfilled futures.
You’re forced into puppetry and words that aren’t yours – to fulfil a future that will never exist because I can’t resolve the reality that there was nothing I could do.

I can’t accept that we just weren’t meant to be.

I blame myself, because that way I still have control.
If I blame me, the future could/should/would have been different.
If I blame me I can pretend there was another outcome.
I can pretend we might have worked.
I can pretend you might have loved me.
Maybe, but definitely some times.