I walk the same streets you do, but in a different city—one built of whispers and the things I never say. You are the sun, indifferent to the flower, while I am the shadow, learning to love the grey. To love you is a quiet, holy treason, a map I draw of lands I’ll never tread. I collect the crumbs of every passing "hello, "and bake a feast of dreams inside my head. It is a brave and foolish kind of hunger, to want the moon while standing in the dark. I am the keeper of a flame you didn't light, content to keep the ache, if not the spark. So I wrap my heart in metaphors and rhythm, a secret house where you are always guest. For in the poetry, you finally choose me—and in the silence, I can let it rest. All the metaphors fell silent when I realized the sun was finally looking back at the flower.
Poem + Song. i mean TECHNICALLY. TECHNICALLY. this is for @UA_Offical feels the aura those who know
