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my dearest                   ,

i am deeply sure i'll mess up with all the colors in my shaky hands, on my new canvass, on my gingham dress. but haven't i already messed up way too much?

you keep my senses up at night 'til i see the next day. regret, hate, and love--i failed not to feel; your memories always bleach regret and hate.

i've walked on lands of rigid shapes, ruled strokes, and real sights. my eyes, mind, and hands were always stolen by clear limnings--but of monochromatic charcoals.

you differed all along. living as an object still lifeless, the remnants of our affection begged you to be subsisted by the hues.

yet you, my masked portrait of our perplexing love, argued with the dark will of the shades. you were never in my stained hands again, never in my inked heart again.

out of broken pencils, of shaking hands, of chaotic acrylics...

there you appeared,

something unrealistic,
mystifying,
magnificent.

yet you won't ever know, not when you have me beside you.

alas! akin to the abstract i've done, you appear in my dreams... only in my fantasies

for you aren't real.
for you are an ideal one.
for this love is nothing but a concept.
for, as all these lines imply, you are abstract.

love,
fussbudget

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