"I look into her eyes, and she's got that look... you know the kind of look where you can tell she's got something to say but she's just not a strong enough person to just say how she feels. Most people aren't. I'm not. But I never thought she was. I can almost see the lump slowly forming in her delicate throat. The kind that keeps you from speaking. It's like a flood waiting to emerge from her irritated, puffy eyes. A beautiful flood. And I know she loves me, sometimes I question how I would ever produce such terrible thoughts in my head;
'though it's bad, it's not as bad as I thought'
I think to my self as she struggles to tell me what's been going on. And in a painful yet relieving sigh I tell her it's OK. I guess things aren't always what they seem... It's like crayons, how you always look at the wrapper on the crayon to see what color it is, but when you use it on the paper it's never the same color; it's always slightly different, drastically even.
Yes, people and time are like crayons, the wrapper is never the same color as the crayon."