Like the fading rays of the sun, sinking into the vermilion horizon: butterscotch and rose.
I've been counting the times we meet each other. Every meeting is an event to be cherished, to be engraved in the fleshy tablet of my heart. Because any of it could be our last.
Of course, he doesn't know and he wouldn't know. Perhaps he won't even care. He sees beyond the purplish sunset into the twilight. His is the furthest star, whilst mine is the constellation of Virgo.
I miss him. And these feelings melt into a poultice of lavender and butter, milk and baby breath. The colour turned from pearl white into a glorious yellow. Emanating a glow, radiant, and ludicrous.
That's me.
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