my yellow

6

all my life i felt like a misunderstood language, some unorthodox and intricate piece of work; a poem that even the greatest of minds can't seem to decipher. that's how complicated it was, perceiving myself—it felt futile and tedious, even to my very own mind. but that was before i met her, and all of a sudden like fervent flame, she lit up my darkness and paved the way to myself. i wouldn't have found myself if it wasn't for her vivid light and her tranquil warmth. and what is the purpose of a key if there wasn't a keyhole? of fire without the cold? of a pen without ink? much like them, i am pointless without her love.