Sunlight bleeds in through the window

I'm not sure I know what living is anymore;

you say you think of me, daily, often-

but how could you, when you barely

know the way the morning falls

on my thin, mistaken features?

How can you be in love with someone

who is continually inconsistent,

everchanging, ever becoming

less real, less desirable?

I will change into the colors you ask

of me, knowing the detriments

that will follow after this feign.