He was my Yellow.
I can feel his touch even when he is not around, his smile his laugh echo through my empty house like a an everlasting daydream. A daydream I wish no one breaks or wakes me up from. He is the warmth in my winter days, the cool in my summer days. He's the reason I smile today, because he makes me more beautiful. His smile is what I wear in my heart, and his words for me is what rings through my head all day long.
He is the angel to my demons, but somehow it's not demons at all. To love him was like loving a withered rose. He was pure, he was beautiful but he was fragile. He was easily breakable and she knew.
She was the sunflower, wide blooming. She hid the withered rose under herself, protecting what kept her alive. She needed the withered rose as much as the rose needed the sunflower. One incomplete without the other, and complete with one another. Even though none of them belonged with one another, they fit perfectly, like missing puzzle pieces put together.
He was her rose and she was his sunflower.
They don't care about the world. They don't care about the wind that tries to blow them apart, hushing with whispers saying how much his thorn would hurt her stem. How her shield of the sun one day won't be enough to keep all the sunshine away. But they don't care.
For they have bloomed, and that's what matters. For they have flourished, and complete each other in the ways only they could understood; the ways that the other flowers, the grasses, the sky–never could.