I am the artist of the painting I call my life.
And every now and then, 
the man I love&nbsp;&nbsp;makes surprise appearances
 in which, he sheds vivid colors of pain, love, lust and hate 
on my bland misused body.
He does this passionately with his own 
blood, sweat and tears
Creating between my love and his, colors that don’t exist
It is a thing of beauty, truly. 
But at the end he always leaves
and then it becomes my vigorous displeasure 
to blend the colors he leaves behind. 
Turning back to simpler colors of life