She's painted the most beautiful portraits of life.
Where a bird's song is the only drug,
Dry leaves crunching the only violence.
Love is the only wildfire,
And she is the spark.
The only problem is:
I'm not in that portrait.

But it was not always that way.
I accompanied her in that portrait,
the Robin to her Batman,
the yin to her yang,
the boom to her bang.
I was painted over and replaced.

Because after all,
all paint fades.