She could never be the home you desired.
She could never be the brightest shine to your days.
She could never be the spark to your fire.
She never could be the anecdote to your imaginary tales.

All she ever could be was the canvas to your paint.
Patient enough to withhold every faulty stroke.
Brave enough to demand your thoughtful caress.
Careful enough to manage her anger and hope.
Powerful enough to capture your enchanted gaze.
For the strength of an artist is in creating magic no matter the mess.
And the power of the canvass is in camaflauging the colours to finesse.
Together, either a masterpiece comes blessed with eternity.
Or a disaster entails bleeding hearts with the utmost cruelty.

But what you couldn't understand was perfection is an illusion.
What you wouldn't realise was she was trying to change her ways.
Amidst your disappointed looks and hurtful accusations.
The could be girl, finally gave way.