Untitled: Sequel to Cobalt

I try to write something beautiful whilst I sit in such an ugly world, even the morbid red is dull when compared to your enlightened skin, unadorned and tattooed, the real art of Earth is there on your thigh and in your hair, Van Gogh was a mere mockery.  Trying to portray beauty of life with something that's never lived and love, having none himself. How can you paint of love when you've never touched it as I have? You are not the embodiment of my emotions but the emotions themselves. I feel it when I look into your eyes, my own adoration is shining back from those spheres. I spread my love and joy to the world as you travel, away from me you hold my everything and I'll hold anything of yours, that you will give to me. It is the way of the word and of the heart. I was trying to write something beautiful and only your name came to my mind, cliche' but what emotion I still hold in my body isn't? You've taken my original everything and left me only with this prose I despise, thank you for changing me. I have broken the mold thanks to the simplicity in you skin and your map has shown me the way back home, where we reside and never sleep and never give into carnal urges; just lay in utopia, each others arms and pretend we need neither that we deny.1