Every evening when twilight falls, I wonder: was it her smiling at me? Was it her, I whisper... when she, fragile and quiet, held her hand out and released the light soft and pale of a fragile moonbeam.
And you've grown into a bright sunshine that rises up in the wide April sky, and I stand, blinded and vain, crouching in your shadow, wandering and alone, forever unable to deserve our dreams.
Every evening I wonder.
But as long as some blue paint stains my fingers, it keeps me safe from an answer.