SANGUINE MELANCHOLY

miracle

I write what's beauty and grace,

I write what's sad and solace,

So I write about you....cause you are all i ever wanted to write.

i remember when my dad used to take me to gardens, that was the only place enough to make me happy all at once. the brightest colour of flowers, the sweetest smell of roses, butterflies and honeybees and grasses covered with dew and large palm trees, and sky always drunk in love, sunrises the most resplendent. And one could feel there is nothing more beautiful than this and that's where one belongs. And to me, it all felt like a miracle. I used to watch all the happy people walking around and smiling and laughing and actually living their lives, so much that i started to feel that this world is a happy place until i grew up and realized how wrong i was.

The people aren't happy, the world isn't a happy place, and nothing is what i used to think back then.

Miracles aren't roses or colour of flowers or big palm trees or sunrises or watching people smile while they take a walk. Miracles are light in this world full of darkness. Miracles are hopes, are the feelings. Miracles can be anything or anyone. Miracles are everything beautiful.

And then, i met you. And years after, i felt the same. Now going gardens or touching roses or smelling flowers or watching sunrises doesn't make me happy anymore, but you do. You make me the happiest and i will always be thankful for that. You are my miracle. You will always be the same.

Thanks