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He'll see this eventually, and I hope it will make his heart flutter.

The idea of him, the one. 

He is the sweet smell of fresh green with eyes like toffee and cream.

He is sticky sweet.

His tear ducts hold oceans, like how he holds me and he has locks of hair

as thick as a Redwood can grow.

He is the hand stretched across the sheets, searching for mine to grasp.

His other form’s the knife that severed Van Gogh’s ear.

I tell him that I want to become a beautiful painting some day.

One people will remember.

Soft colors make up us, we run down together.

When I think of the one, I see him.