awesomnerd345

It isn’t right, not yet. It’s still off somehow. You chuckle to yourself—perhaps they truly are the sole embodiment of such an elusive person. They never are meant to be recreated, to be caught by something as objective as the color of paint. Sighing, you lay the brush down for the seventh time and stare at the pair of eyes peering out the bundles of peach blossoms. Regardless of what color you add or mix, you can’t capture the same brilliant copper of the Tramp’s. No dash of white, yellow, or red is bright enough nor pierces you like his did. Your stupor prevents you from hearing the heels closing in behind you