You like red, not like blood, but like the sky when it sets and the sun is falling away to reveal the plethora of stars that decorate our atmosphere. You like blue, like the the soft hue that paints our sky in the early morning and the dark color that decorates the depths of our oceans. You love the earth, as do I. You hate the oils that destroy this world, the drills that rip apart our soils and desecrate the life this very planet breathes into us. You adore rivers, the scales of fish and the gentle flow of currents and the soft breeze that caresses your face as I so wish to. You love to capture the beauty of this world through the magic of the canvas and the brushes that accompany it.
As I list these things as my inspiration, my dear clementine, I long to be upon the things that make your heat soar with joy at the simple prospect of experiencing them. Let me be yours, as you are mine.
This is to you, my love.
YOU ARE READING
This is to you, my love.
Romancean obtuse record of feelings the author feels when writing chracters in the romantic sense. (Based off true events)
