I pictured love and grief as forgotten young lovers.
I pictured their romance as an eclipse on a late afternoon.
I saw them as a veil on one another,
their arms entangled, their limbs warm by the closure.

Forgotten young lovers, making love
with their hands and words.
Caressing the other's neck till it dawns,
with a touch of melancholy and gloom.

The walls are painted midnight blue.
And i think the colors we love
are the ones that ruin us.
And who does not want to get ruined by a lover's touch.

Like the romance of love and grief, i think we are
too different or too wrong
Or maybe too perfect to be something.