His heart is what I love the most.
Flaming
Beautiful
Protected  
Behind locked doors, I found
An ever changing painting;
Always transforming with
Stunning colors sprinting across
The blank, white canvas of his making.
It will never be blank again
Because
The crimson of his love is too strong.
And
The violet of his daydreams is just too complex.
And
The deep blue of his sadness is simply too heavy.
But these colors
Along with so many others,
Are what make his his heart his, his alone.
What I love the most,
Is his vibrant heart.
No matter how many times
He attempts
To cover it in white.