Jealousy Burns.

Dear you,

I know true to myself that often times people are fiercely naive. Even ungrateful at times. Sometimes the decisions they make are deceitful, evil, and wrong. But they don't think they are. They probably don't even know they matter or affect anyone in the slightest. We are all in our own little, infallible world anyways.

A lot of times, those decisions made based on a false reality are consequently distasteful, wavering, and unsure by default. Which is okay; it's human to be imperfect. A lot of people suffer from the thought that it's not.

I don't, though.

It makes no sense, really. Maybe my process of thinking is just different from that of yours and from that of most people. It's more equivalent and fair. That shouldn't be a deciding factor of my life.

Perhaps yours. But not mine.

It started in October, when the fall is the most beautiful dark red you've ever seen. Every single leaf that drops highlights another beginning and end. Trees almost gain life although the brush is removed, and the wind begins to have an outline. The dew on the grass almost dissipates as the world dries but more color than ever is spread across it like a canvas on fire. The edges of it give love, spooks, and memories that only come around about that time of year.

But love was exactly the same in that way. It felt like when the world turned it left October deeply behind, and same for that paint-stained canvas of art. All the built trust in the season was ill-intended, and everything about it was sick.

More like a cold, the symptoms didn't appear until much later either, which made things a lot more difficult on my end. The deep realization and developed virus just wouldn't show. But that's long gone now and leads me back to where it started: October.

Everything about the Fall led back to that piece of art work.

His name was Gray. And Gray, much like the color, had me completely fooled: silver-lining in clouds and glistening steel didn't compare to his beauty. The way he presented himself was more than a star, for stars are white and he were brighter. His lean figure had mine all wobbled and discombobulated like I was a pix-elated image. Our time together was that of a shock to all: beauty next to ordinary, graphic next to HD, Summer next to a Monday.

And her name was Ruby. Ruby matched her name by textbook. The gem itself represented only her reflection, and her reflection represented the sparkle. The two colors matched by only a logo, of which the silver dollar and red birth stone met into a fading heart. Ruby made him smile, laugh, and her presence was enjoyable to him. Her curves and lips made his head swivel, as if the two were soulmates by birth or connected by a thread.

They were perfect. Much more perfect than a scrapbook. Much more perfect than a glued-on, hand-me-down doll holding hands with a brand new Ken. The two even shared names, two colors that had no critique together. They shared love, even short-term for what it was. She had him in a locket and he had her in his sleeve. There was no doubt they belonged.

The two made perfect sense. And that was naive. That was ungrateful. That was very, very deceitful.

Because in the backdrop of that painting was a shadowy figure nobody knew about. Gray was wonderful at coating the image until everything blew out except the two themes in the front, making every eye focus on the rainbow instead of the rain before it. While he might have left October behind, he still had a new acrylic to add to his piece.

And I didn't.

So I painted the image for him. I made him meet Ruby, except not the love but the color: he went up in it. His screams faded into the laughter of jumping in a pile of leaves together. His body had a new, colorful frame. The heat he made me feel, made Ruby feel, was finally out of him. And he loved it, I'm sure. I could tell he did: he was delighted to be with her once more, even for the last time, and the anger it infected me with was more bright than the flames that consumed him.

My gut feeling was finally reciprocated by nature. The leaves falling did nothing to compare to his end, and even the black gasoline had almost developed a pumpkin smell to equalize the mood. It satisfied me that his final moments were with none other than me. That was as it should have been from the beginning.

With me.

But now, it is Winter. And for years on end I've chased Ruby once more, but everything is so white. My heart yearns to beg and plead for one more opportunity. My love for Gray was so genuine, and your photograph was just more vivid. Whilst the hue was raised for you, the background was removed. The story behind the childish propaganda was killed, where it all actually started.

Ruby made Gray, but Gray made me. And if she made him, she can give him to me, even past his little life that I rightfully took away for myself. It belonged with me, as we know, and I thought it oddly poetic you took that.

Though it is a blizzard of powder, my apology is red. It can re-ignite mine and Gray's love once more, I know it can. Though I knew I must first rid of Ruby, for Ruby outshines my glossy red lipstick by miles.

Gray even thought so.

So, for my final goodbye, I ask one thing of you Ruby. Please accept my apology for years to come, and don't mind the dirt when it finally drowns you. Nothing else could've smothered your part of the painting better.

The brown suits you more than Gray ever did.

Sincerely, Laura.