3. He doesn't understand art, It breaks my heart.

Everything good ends. Purity and clarity end like an ice tray thrown against the wall. They shatter into a million pieces sharply, then melt as if to say they accept their fates in mediocrity, bringing rot to the wooden floor. Here is me, twenty something, breaking down on the floor. Here is me the artist in a relationship with the passionless. I let his pessimism devour my poetry, my beauty, my tears, and pain, and cold. We are constantly circling each other in desperation. This is a search for my laughter, this is a search for his pain.