You.

It was all dark, yet lit up.
It was all dull, yet shining.
It was all rugged, yet even.
It was all melancholy, yet happy.
You were in there, deep, soaked in live blood.
The blood that ran in his veins and kept him alive.
The veins that had given up their monotonous lives but carried you.
The lives that had nothing but hopeless faith to be alive.
The faith that let his heart do it’s job.
The job of keeping you alive.
You, his blood.
You, his life.
You, his faith.
You, his heart.
You. His. You.
Why does everything that starts, ends with you?
Why a life so simple has to be portrayed in this way?
You see the clouds shrouding the moon. And how he protects you.
You see the sun shining with all his might to let the sown grow. And how he cares for you.
You see the birds flying high in the sky. And how he let’s you free.
You see the rains splashing on the window pane. And how he touches you.
You see the sun touching the horizon. And how he kisses you.
You. He. You.
When it starts with you, it’s his.
And when it’s his, it’s all about you.
It’s madness. A whim.
Because, You are all that he has.
His life.

The dark coloured veins carried dull blood all round his rugged body and his melancholy soul. 
Yet all for him was lit, shining, even and happy, because of you.
You kept him alive.
His blood.

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7 thoughts on “You.”

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