"She never looked nice.

She looked like art, and art wasn't supposed to look nice;

it was supposed to make you feel something."

- Rainbow Rowell

The brushstrokes curved to the bend in my thoughts.

The bronze-olive speeched the speechless.

The pearls lining her focus showed a different kind of wealth,

Yet the centre of her affection lay breachless.

Never once has it initiated from commonality,

Such luxuries seemed fantastical.

But with the sudden cessations of raging wars

Written themes seem much less fanciful.

Schrodingers affection. When mutuality arrives,

Will it be love? Or immaturity?

Until the inevitable close, peek into reflection.

Only then will we know

If we were worth your time.