When I was twelve,

There was a constant buzzing everywhere I went.

Splashes of grey and smokes of black;

They were an illness for all.

But to me,

it was my home where

I could dream as long as I wanted to,

And time could repeat on and on

'til our eyes and arms would ache.

The butterfly's wings never bent in December.

And that's how it's been all along–

Colorless paintings of mirth and melancholy.

But mostly, you.