Sometimes we are Van Gogh,
scattering autumn leaves,
soul pulsing with fire,
inverse of a Starry Night.

Other times you are Da Vinci
I am your flying machine,
The stuff of my wildest dreams
soaring on high...

I try my hand at Michelangelo,
pressing fingers into your palm like cherubs
Rising up to brush my lips 
across your blank canvas cheeks.

Picasso appears in my dreams,
twisting us like clay,
he drowns us in shades of blue and we are sinking,
     sinking...