Your mind is a canvas;
thoughts are just paint
sitting restlessly on the palette.

Every word invokes motion in color
and I want to paint you
more perfectly than the mirror.

Your canvas is still wet
and the red runs down, driven or pulled,
onto blue sadness.

This art is alive—
Moving with each stroke!

I can't paint here.
I change my mind.

Your thoughts rebel
as colors collide—
mixing into sunsets,
wandering into seas.

Staining into smoke.

There is a maelstrom in the air
and it blurs my eyes.
It stings at times
and it's hard to see;
I think I see brand new colors
all over me.

You aren't what I meant to paint.

And I am no longer the same color
that I used to be.