of being colour on a palette bewitches me.
Parts of me would be one with the thin, beguiling surface; I would swirl and clump, and the brushes of fate would dab at me thoughtfully
We would blend together slowly, taking over just a little of the other, building a shade new in each minuscule pigment of us and us apart. Together, we’d make a hue fit for the gossamer dreams are made of in another land, for the colours of the horizon in a little child’s eyes.
These strokes will make us one; some of my colour, though, will remain where I was, loyal to this palette, defiant of the brush strokes. Yes, some of me will remain away, and all the parts of me away from you will later seep down the drain.