Paint has spilt all over
My worn clothes and clammy hands
Colors becoming an array of
Makeshift beauty as I arch my wrist.

And I sketch and I draw
And I write this to life, repainting
The precious and  capture
Some of it for myself.

And the story of year-old blood and day-old
Paint have all dried under my nails and my hands,
Consequence of a failing try to redefine and
Capture the smallest details of the daunting world I live in.

But this much seems pointless,
Because every time I look at the world
And at the people surrounding the
Enigmatic soul in you,

I realize that such that such beauty
Of mind and matter is too great
For me to recreate a small part of it
Only armed with ink, paint and a pencil.

And maybe, it was a twist of sweet fate,
But as I wash all the paint and ink off
And find you right in front of me, I'm reminded
Of how I've failed to capture all the brilliance.

So instead, as I watch as the last of the paint
Waters into nothing but *******, I commit
You to memory and hope that you don't fade away
The same way graphite and ink does.