What it’s like to be romanticised

It would be wrong to compare me to a sunset. I cannot be the firey fuchsia reflection in your eyes. I am nowhere close to your indigo dreams. And I certainly am not your kind of beautiful. I need to be explained. Interpreted. My pinks and reds and purples are skin deep, and to touch them is a mistake you are smart enough to avoid. Colors blend and bleed and you are witness to the magic. But just as our sky turns to art, it disappears without warning like a shy child. And maybe, just maybe, we do have something in common.

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