I’ve tried to paint you  
on canvases stretched by dreams,  
mixing colors borrowed from sunsets,  
oceans, and moonlit whispers.  

Yet each stroke feels incomplete,  
the hues too faint, too still,  
unable to breathe  
your magic into life.  

How can I capture  
a spirit lighter than air,  
a soul like hidden music,  
in a static frame?  

Your essence eludes  
brushes and palettes,  
like trying to bottle lightning,  
or hold starlight in my palm.  

Each painting falls short,  
though I chase perfection endlessly
because art can’t contain  
what makes you beautifully alive.  

Maybe perfection lies  
in the failing, the yearning,  
knowing no color or canvas  
could ever truly hold you.