Fabor-Castell

We were young, okay?

If a canvas was the world, 

then it was still wrapped in its packaging 

On some shelf 

at some craft store in some random city.

The paint to which we would draw rose petals and sea waves,

Turtle shells,

And creme brûlée 

Didn't exist.

The pencil to which we would trace mountain tops and stick figures,

Bed sheets and grass blades,

Didn't even have lead,

It was still a tree.

Somewhere,

Under the sun 

at a different time,

A different ray...

Somewhere far away from you and me.

And I think back now, 

to those moments where for some reason,

I thought I knew where it was.

To those moments where I thought I could stick my index into the dirt and pick technicolor paste,

To those moments where I swore

I sharpened the pencil,

Times where each step I took was a rose petal or grass blade on our canvas.

We were young, okay?

I've been alone for a couple months now because in the end 

the canvas that I thought I had conquered was MY invisible creation inside of your frame.

A wonderful illusion,
and when you left,
I figured out that loving you was my problem