I don't own anything.
To Marcos: O Brother, what I learned from you.
One: Grey.
From Yuffie.
I watched them silently, ignoring the fire pouring down my cheeks.
Why her? Why him? Why couldn't I have more sense?
He brushes his thumb past her cheek. I feel the feathery touch on my own, dulled by jealousy and transmitted by my own loathing. I don't want to hate her.
But look what's she's done to me. Look at this amazing creature, her long sable hair rippling over her shoulder, her merlot eyes lowered in reverence. As well they should be.
Where am I, anyway? How did I get here? Where did these feelings come from? He's so old. So mature, tender, understanding, compassionate-no, no. Not that.
He can't help being the beautiful soul that he is. He can't help being so tall, so graceful, so eloquent. It's not his fault. But is it hers?
Perhaps it's mine. Mine.
I know I'm not completely in the wrong. I know it.
But I'm not right.
I guess I'm just grey.
