Everything is but a dream, inanimate we are. Consider our actions as acts of nothing; we are nothing more than a caricature, of black and white. There is no color, no passion no light in your eyes. Can I call you heartless, cold, stiff, and unemotional, there is no heartbeat, like a dead man. You are nothing more than a dreamer, although not a believer. You cannot be contained through a photo, through photography; you are unsuited for such creativity, no originality.
But something even more important and valuable to me, love, you can never possess it. A feeling too strong, for the strong of heart, I guess that makes me weak, amongst the meek. You are nothing more than a picture upon a blank wall, a wall without a color of blue, pink, yellow, red, cream, violet, green, periwinkle, nothing of that sort. I cannot even begin to feel the beat of your heart when I am with you. I wish you knew how I felt, tired, worn down, as if going out was more of a chore. I look into your eyes, lifeless, blue, green, brown, and no but white.
Are we not to say that we were not meant to be? I do not understand why you can never love me. Its flat, there is no motion, there is no flutter, as my heart once had at the sway of the wind, the scent of your cologne stung my nose. Now I cannot even smell it, the nervousness I would have when in your presence, it has turned into scornful, hard to swallow nausea. I want to be able to sing your name, to express my greatest gratitude for being your love. But it would be a dream, my life is but a dream.
