He was always running.

Always running.

To her.

What was so inescapable, like being incarcerated with rose vines and thick frost? An alpine rose. Thorny situation, beautiful sight.

He thought it was yellow; the way she always apologized, the way her eyes seemed like oblivion, dark and calling, with the most minuscule glint allowing for a portal to reality.

Instead of reminiscing on who she took the place of or rather who she mirrored to him, he walked behind her, watching her black locks sway from the swimming pool to his inner atriums; feeling her smile's outline imprint on his cheeks, giving off the peach he noticed on her lips. These colors hovered above his head and recollected in his eyelids, using elements from Raphael and VanGogh to piece together her face again in his memory.

She believed his smile was like the sun, so why did he feel warmth? Why did he feel his epidermic layers heating up with anxiety and ill intentions? Ill intentions defined to him as divulging all his words unsaid and cataclysmic sentences meant to undermine what he was to her right now.

Red. Orange. Yellow.

Everything she did for him was 0 degrees Celsius.

Everything he did for her was 32 degrees Fahrenheit.

He miscalculated.