There are times where I want to dip my hand into the rippled parts of my thoughts  
And smear them onto white walls so you would be able to see the mangled images I have of you.
I am not able to sort you into categories like a librarian does with pastel colored spines on red-oak shelves.
No; you are the excuse “rules are meant to be broken.”
You are the contradictory between oil and water.
Coloring my perspective a different shade of grey like spilled contents of smoke engulfing the ocean that houses above skyscrapers
You said “One day I’ll come back, blistered hands and scraped knees.”