I didn't have to tell you I was lost, you already knew.

I guess the way my lonesome eyes wandered over the pages of blissful and melancholy poems may have been your first clue. I read them, and quoted them out of habit.
Asking you constantly why people didn't talk like this anymore, why they insisted on using simple, dull phrases in their speech to depict their emotions.
You said it was because poetry was a lost art, and that describing how one felt had evolved into just plainly telling them so, without flowering it. Making it easier to understand. Strangely, I couldn't comprehend what you meant by that, but it forever made me wonder why people no longer wanted their words to be beautiful.

The second indication of being lost was the way I tried so hard to stay hidden, but always managed to become exposed. My insides always surfacing at the most inconvenient times. It got to the point where everything I said caused people to look my way.
Not because what I articulated was witty, or even lovely, but because the words I said were unusual and never made sense. Thus, I made an effort to keep my voice quiet. So at least then my insanity would only come out in whispers.

Thirdly, I think you became convinced of my inability to find myself on the day I climbed up onto the roof of my house and told you I was going to jump. I pronounced it was the only way I could ever really achieve my dream to fly, even if it were only for a few seconds before I would collide with the ground. It took hours, but you finally persuaded me to come back down. Promising that you would find me a pair of wings.

And who could forget the time you asked me my favorite color, and I told you it was gray. When you inquired to the reason why, I replied that it was because gray was all my favorite colors blended together. But that I liked it most because it was the color of your downcast eyes. I still remember how you halfheartedly laughed and promptly changed the subject.

I guess, now I can see I wasn't the only one who was lost.