Love Overcast // (ManxMan)

=Chapter 37=

A/N: I think it is better for me to speak here briefly instead of the end, because mood killer and whatnot. Important thing is to read the poem carefully. Also, smut warning... sort of? It's rated C for confused. Apart from that, Happy New Year! And surprise the series is now a tetralogy instead of a trilogy.

*~*~*

If you're anything like me,

Short shorts and a big hoodie,

Laying on the floor, listing facts that make his eyes oh-so shiny.

Mystically wishing for the fairy tales to live and learn greater things.

If you're anything like me,

Violet eyes, jet black hair,

Dancing among the shadows, pretending life is actually fair.

Gracefully embracing his flaws as my own; solving our tick-tack-toes.

If you're anything like me,

Loud laughs, silent tears,

Living life with all but no fears.

Hopelessly daydreaming through the thick of danger.

*~*~*

[x]

There was once a point in time where his livelihood was governed by his ability to fool, both himself and others.

If he laughed a little louder than others, they would believe that he is happy. If he helped those that needed help, he would seem like he was doing well for himself. If he hid in plain sight, he wouldn't be spotted.

He always stared at the shapeless clouds, they were entities of plasticity. He appreciated the flexibility possible, it was one of the few things that didn't reflect his practically stasis agenda. He wasn't staring at another person, wondering what was different between them that they get to live in moments of screaming colour and he had to swim in his personal grey scale tar pit.

Others might not see the clouds as anything more than a useless floating mass of water vapour. However, amongst the body of gas, rested all his hopes and dreams. He saw, his own stubby fingers on the keys of a piano, right foot on a brass pedal. Eyes closed. He was smiling.

The spotlight was harsh on him, but music is a shapeless art. So long as the tones he created reached his audience, he can live with being faceless. In fact, he would rather be a silhouette, because just like a cloud, he would be formless.

He would imagine an array of paintbrushes resting against the rim of a paint splattered plastic cup. The water a murky dark green as his eyes search the battle field of colours to find nothing but peace. It was a quiet counterpart to music, but just as loud as a hand-crafted score of sonic excellence.

The loneliness was encouraged, he can't be a people's person all his life now, can he?

Most of all, as he stared at the sun saturated, cloudless blue sky. He was envisioning his own orchestra of grey-white blobs.

He saw life where life didn't exist.

And his imagination made life out of thin air.

~

The sheets are pale grey with accents of silver at the seams, irregular patters strewn across the double bed covers, matching the one-shade-darker bedsheets and pitch-black pillow cases. Of course, the room is merely a guest room within the confines of his father's home. If it were up to Skylar, there would be artistically placed splashes of colours everywhere.