Thus, I stand in this field of flowers,
Watching him capture all that lies
Beyond that which my eyes can see.
Swiftly, he caresses the bleak canvas
With the hues of life he dips his brush in;
And I watch as his eyes sometimes squint
In utter immersion of what I long to see.
The wind ruffles the black of his hair
And the sun glistens on colors he used,
As I stay here, and watch him do
What I long to fathom, but fail to see—
He would look at me occasionally
With sad eyes and a bright smile;
But I still cannot see what I miss to see.
The night begins to gradually devour
This scenerey displayed in front of me,
Taking away from me, yet gifting me;
With a wishful sky, and firelies,
And his warm hand entwined in mine;
But I still cannot see what I yearn to see.
The cold cuts through his skin and mine,
As we try to stall the walk of time.
His grip on my hand tightened,
And the sorrow in his eyes grew;
Rendering me to spill the tears
I have not yet dared to shed—
Thus, burying my face into his chest;
Desperately trying to deafen the sobs;
To bury away these truth-filled tears.
For I still cannot see
What I long to see.
And oh, how foolish it was of me,
To only then realise;
Neither can he.