of your eyes, begonia skies

to think that i used to be so, so intrigued by sunsets, the way the skies would quietly set themselves aflame, how i'd always be in awe by the fact that every sunset seemed to be the same, yet each and every one was unique in its own way;

to think that as i grew older, there always was some sort of romantic attachment to it —perhaps it was the age of rooftops and sunsets and mayday parade playing softly in the background, of the notion of being under a shared sky,  or the fact that sunsets always held a kind of paradoxical timelessness to it, or just the idea that things are always more precious when they're fleeting, or even the idea of being completely enveloped by all the beauty in this vastness, all the beauty there is to exist in this world— 

but how could i not have known, that nothing in this world is beautiful and true for there will come to a point where you'd had to wrap yourself around the thought of all these suns rising and setting without him, every sunset suddenly becoming a measure of nothing but time— like a faded, tainted kind of beauty that never saw the same light anymore; as though the reds and the pinks had melted into each other to become a sad, melancholic kind of rose

and suddenly we're all sinking beneath the very weight of knowing that scars us in ways we could never undo; gentle yet ruthless, like a loss of innocence, as though the warm, saturated hues could no longer comfort me the way it used to anymore— yet i'd still sit and watch as it edges closer and closer towards me but never close enough to touch, the way it paints these glorious streaks of light across the sky as though it were a canvas — and every one of these moments there's always a knowing, that no matter how familiar this sight may be— i don't know these skies anymore, for beautiful as they are, it's a kind of beauty i no longer knew to appreciate or fathom, a very jarring kind of beauty that makes you bleed a little inside, gently ripping you all apart; for it's the kind of beauty that resonates with you in an oddly familiar way, but not one you could ever connect with anymore; it's the kind of understanding that we could never go back to the way we used to— of your eyes begonia skies — here we are once more, a mere speck of dust suspended in a sunbeam, enveloped in a sea of colours, and all i see are these colours, distant all at once yet beautiful nonetheless