You think you see me, but what you see is only a tapestry you have woven in my image. A curtain that shields your eyes from me. From looking fully at me. You do not want me the way you think you want me. You cannot want something you have never seen. I would not be the life or death of you. I am only a collection of various hues of gray. You think you want me, but your glasses color me with roses and fragments and I cannot live up to your approximation of me. Perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the next day, someone will walk into you and you will look at her instead. And she will make you bloom in ways that I never could have. And maybe you will remember the reflection you saw of me in some far-off pool, and maybe you will think that I would have made you happier. But I can promise you that I would not have made you anything but lonely. I was only ever sand slipping through your fingers.