I am the painting, but if he thinks he has all the brushes he is mistaken
I feel him shifting
Paint strokes drifting
little does he know
but I'll never dare tell him I am letting go.
I prepare myself for what drifts on the horizon
The salty wind                 blowing                 through blue skies, and
and god,
I feel ourselves sliding so askew
Here I go, painting myself anew.