I know you have ideas for your perfect world, grand plans for the fairy tale.
You have drawn up dreamy blueprints and castles formed of stardust. You see the world through a filter of childlike optimism and naive wonder. Sewing gardens of the stuff of angels wings and lush fields of spun gold.
I see how hard you toil over the perfection of this personal utopia, every setback as an opportunity to build better to craft your paradise in perfect tune with your heart’s syncopated rhythm.
My dear, I am not of your world. I would serve to crush your cities like sandcastles and drain your heart gray.
Not of intention or dark scheme…it, sadly, is just my nature.
There may have been a time, far enough in my past that only ghostly memories remain. A time when my eyes could see visions like yours of gilded towers and free birds and budding love…
I have come to believe it all mirage. More a realization of what IS rather than a pity of self. Realism, in all its cold and stark contrast to your blinding and beautiful idealism. I see nothing but the shadow that sunlight casts, not the warmth that you bask in, like summer rain.
I was drawn to you, in that way that opposites attract. But everything must find an equilibrium, a median point where two temperatures find common. If I stay, our center would become cold to the touch, as I fear that your light would be of little match for my dark ways.
I am cold, but I still understand a kindness. My gift to you is my absence.
Your towers and gardens need sun, I would, in time, block that out and cast a sad pall upon your fields of spun gold.
Find a bright moon to compliment you.
I’m afraid that I would only salt the soil.