You are reckless colour
and I'm the muted grey
backdrop to you riot.
I let you run wild
while you carry the world
on your tired back,
dripping paint on the
canvas of space and
time. You paint universes
in sorrow, stars in
exhaustion; you drown
oceans in skies and
raise mountains on
plains. You are wild
imagination and I'm
the steady flow of
words to keep you
solemn company. You
are the last dregs of
chaos, strong and pure,
and I am the smell of
an old room, always
there, forever constant,
forever lingering. You
are great joys sprinting
across the canvas and
I'm the borders that
you leave on the
windowsill. You are
violent song, trembling
tears; I am the quiet nod
of a great tree as it listens
to the whispering wind.
You are a million sparks
of power, behind a dam
of subtlety, and I am the
river, waiting for time to
pass. You are autumn, or
what it feels like to fall,
and I am the warm summer
with my joyous abandon.

You and I are forever in
balance; you observing me,
me writing you down.