I like being wrapped in your arms. I feel protected. It is as if I am covered by a soft blanket, but it is bulletproof. I notice your pupils dilate when you look at me, expanding like black holes to vacuum me into your universe. You take me in and teach me to be one with you, not you. Your mind is immaculate. I would never know this if I had not ventured into it, and I wish you were credited for your perfection. You are so beautifully meek, yet so quick to run to my defense. You did not ask for me to give in return, you did not push me into or away from you. You are the love of my life. The moment you walk into the room, my heart quickens. I am paralyzed by your beauty and stature. As of now, I live to become yours.
She is beautiful, and that is why people love her. I thought I loved her. Then her beauty started to fade as it always does, and I realized beauty was all she had. The only reason I loved her was for her beauty. If she is not beautiful, no one will love her. If no one loves her, she has nothing.
My mind is a garden, and you make my flowers bloom as if it were an eternal spring. It never rains in my garden; you have a watering can to nourish my thoughts until they are fruitful and delightful. All I knew before was a garden flooded with tears. My flowers would tremble in the cold, slump, and die between my fingers. You are my sunshine, and your soft beams of light have cleared my mind of agony. I told you I was in pain, but now that you have softly warmed my body and mind up to the feeling of euphoria, I can no longer say I am hurting. It has not rained for days, but you have a watering can and my orchards are infinitely flowering.
I am afraid to paint because I do not want to ruin a pure, clean canvas. What if I do not like the results? What if I fail to create a beautiful piece of art? I cannot return to that blank canvas once I begin to paint. It is impossible to erase paint.