Walls || BaekYeol

E N D

For some reason,
I got too comfortable,
too familiarized
with every movement
he makes.
It seems to be etched
in my mind
the words he had spoken.
His smiles were tattooed
on my skin.
And our memories
painted on colorless walls.

The thing
about white walls,
is that it gives you
the capacity to
enhance your creativity.
Its a plain blank wall
where you can
do your thing
and add more to it.
Somehow,
in the walls
we once painted,
are filled
with colorful hues
and bright shades
that neither of us thought they existed.
We created an art
that only us
could decipher.
But not all
of the walls
we colored
are painted neon's of us,
some you'd notice
in the shadows
of the photos
are memories
we wanted to hide,
the problems
we wanted
to run away from.
But sadly, shadows
follow us around.
And we're too exposed
in the light
that we ceased to notice
the dark shade behind us.
And thats when
things got wrong,
when we were
taking a break
from being happy,
we saw it,
we were dazed and confused, about how
something dark
could be following
behind us
even if we were
taking intoxicated walks
on the colors of the rainbow?

These walls are my heart,
my heart
is a fused painting of all epitomes of our memories.

These walls are my skin,
my skin
is a free sketching pad
where you tattooed
all of you on it
with an unerasable marker.

Im someone
who lacks tattoos and colors,
and you came in
and filled them
with different colors
that no one has seen.

And now
here I am taking weary walks on the side walk
we used to go down.
But now,
I'm alone,
not the usual
two by two walks
we used to do
when we were bored.
Here walking
with visibly marked tattoos that you left on my arms.

Everyone's asking
how could we be
so perfectly painted.
I would answer
that its because
Im a painter
and you are a writer.
No matter how
different we are,
we managed to create
a perfect portrait
on a perfect canvas
with the perfect colors.

The only problem
was that
the painter and the writer
had to part ways.
And they had to bring
the painting they made
for memories to keep.
So they thought of
having it ripped
so perfectly equal.
They thought
it would still be perfect
with the perfect cut.
But one thing
they didn't realize
is that it
wasn't complete.
The colors
in the other half
weren't quite seen
on the other,
and the ineffable objects
was not
visible on the other.
It was
an incomplete perfection,
an incomplete set of colors,
an incomplete variant of shades.

They were incomplete,
for the canvas
they painted
was as well,
broken.

The walls
we made
so ever strongly,
are slowly
breaking down.
Because we were
the ones that
tore them into pieces
in the first place,
when all we could think of
was leaving.

Maybe, maybe after some time, I'll continue painting on the white walls about our story, with invisible paint of the love we never knew was going to last eternity.