“Sometimes, your refuge becomes your cage,” you say this and look outside the window.

If I were a Sketch Artist, I could capture the planes of your jaw…

I would dab that jaw line with coal and sprinkle a pinch of ash, for the grey that’s your soul.

“What color is my soul?” I ask.

You laugh, an easy laugh…and my heart glows for you still have these glimpses of who you are when your mind is miles away from me.

“I don’t know a thing about colors, Love. My knowledge is limited to primary colors, but I know a thing or two about smoke and mist, and if you were to ask me, to genuinely ask this of me…I would say that your soul is a galaxy. Miles away, a thing of beauty, unattainable.”

“Where do you get these words from?”

“I don’t know Love. When I am around you, sometimes, the hardest thing is to accept who I am…for I never know why I am calm when I bleed my heart out or even why I do it, see, if you ask my friends, like take Martin for example, he’d tell you I am a jerk, the most clueless person on earth…but Martin’s lucky, he’s got his forever-and now he just has to work towards making it last, and look at me…look at us…”

“And?”

“You’re my Kilimanjaro…I love you but I do not know how to leave who I may be when you are away from me, so no matter how hard I try, I never get to your peak…”