"Don't leave"

Don’t leave. Don't leave.

I'm so dependent on you that it hurts. My heart hurts, can you feel. If you leave then, what I am? Am I something, tell me what?

"There’s got to be a ‘something’ for ‘nothing’ to exist"

Don't say it. Don't say it.

‘Nothing’, if I refuse, then what I am?

You feel it, I know you do, the rain in your heart, the drops that are falling are within.

"You are my ‘something’"

Listen. Listen.

Be careful, always mixing words. I am afraid, afraid of all the verses that come out of your mouth. If you change the outline then, what if I lose the margins?

"No, 'us' was something"

Hide. Hide.

I let it set in my heart, but it settles in my tongue. Bitter. I have no time to mind the wet marks.

So cruel, you never loved me that much to not hurt. Lost in all, lost in my nothings, lost my identity… like if I ever had one.

You are the outline. You are my way, draw in my canvas, don't spill the paint, even though we both know I'll let you anyways. Is that what I am?

A canvas, a white monotone, feeble, and simple canvas. A broken canvas forgotten at the corner of a dark room. Spill paint and draw, , if the color leaves it’s just white.

"Is white a color?"

"What?"

Wrinkled nose, strong frown. Mouth on a faltered rambling, I had to let it out. Not the right time. time, which has power upon all of its fools, not today, not right now, not me.

"A-additive *cough*, when you blend red green and blue light it gives you white,

like a prism that breaks light apart."

It’s O.K. I am.

"Thank you"

Just like that I let go. He that gave me nothings, he that hurts, he the bitter, He gave 'me'.

"There’s got to be ‘nothing’ for ‘something’ to exist"

Let go. Let go.

It’s me who plays with his own words. My hand twirls and the door is open, cold air hits my face and it freezes the metal of the suitcase.

Plane ticket in hand, the time marked on black bold letters is too close. Wet marks are drying, I don't try to hold it back because is no longer required.

Melancholy subsists. It was a long journey, pothole every two steps, old and worn shoes, but it never lost its beauty, at the end it was all worth it, because there has to be night before morning comes.

Right?

"It’s getting late; you'll miss the plane if you don't leave"

No goodbye kiss, because your lips are a trap. No hug because my arms don't let go. No looks because if I look I loose, we lose.

"Goodbye my nothing"

Door already closed, heavy as the past, too heavy to carry on my back the rest of my journey. Sliding on it as the un-fallen tears.

Clean the fallen paint; clean the nothing that he left.

White. My colorful light.