I miss the days of cerulean, streaks of yellow, rose colored words, and pleasantness

the days of being addicted to you, wishing of you, hoping the best of ways for you, wishing you

the castles made from rubble and the dreaming of new colors, the poetry I’d write of you, for you

unrequited gifts and unanswered calls, I’d forgive the cruelest of ways, become your great defender, defender against my best judgment

they were gone so quick, how you moved on in a day, to be friends after so much was laid bare

the shredding of dollar bills, melting down golden coins, falsehoods I dressed in truthhoods, whatever they meant I can’t figure now

I don’t believe cerulean exists anymore, the things we made never existed, how I created the facade and wished to live in it

I want to know what an authentic thing can be, how to recognize it, even better to make it

I’ll never go back to the neon colored stripes, the warnings of venom, something to admire but to not touch

it’s a dangerous environment I wandered into, now I have chopped the trees and dug up the paths

I an unable to go back to it, I became so lost and no I’m thankful for it, never to find the most cursed and deceiving treasures again