(Note: this was first written on 16th December, 2015, after a rather amazing interview with a young actor. Inspiration really resides in the most unsuspecting places)

I want to paint a picture of you

There’s something about you that is art

Or are you your own art form, whose notions I study and become an expert in?

But I want to paint a picture of you

So I’ll start there

I studied your every move

How your smiles touches only

A small corner of your cheeks and nothing more

But lights up a room and does nothing less

How your frown ruffles your brow

Frames your face and how

It betrays what you think

But the paltry watercolours are too weightless

For your thoughts and ideas

So I’ll leave them at that

I wanted to paint a picture of you

I did all my homework

Gathered my resources and gall

Knowing that I was perhaps overstaying

My already extended welcome

But with a mad passion I charged on

But stopped right before the first

Stroke stained the canvas, marking a beginning

They say a few things about poor first impressions

And none of those encourage my cause

But what cause am I cheering for?

Let’s leave it there for a minute

And move on

After I battled the agonising thought

Of using a shade too brown to highlight your glorious tone

Or a hue too light for your intense eyes

Or the shame of not getting your smile right

I made my way away from the canvas

What they would see

Would either be my most masterful

Or least disastrous piece, to be sure

But it won’t be real

It’s a picture. Of you, no doubt

A muse that plagues me even today

But it won’t be you

They’d have to imagine you

And picturing a reality

Is nowhere as potent as experiencing it

Ask me; I’m drunk on it.

But my intoxication sways me away

From my original wish

Of painting a picture of you

So I choose to write you into words

Steal you from fiction

Blend you with factual authenticity

Carve you with my love

And seal you within the pages

But that won’t do either, would it?

You’d still only be an image of what I feel

And they’d have to imagine a conversation

Which yields only in my glory

For them to say “oh how well you’ve penned it all”

If at all I get it right, to begin with

I guess I’m too scared

Of the muse you are

And yet too eager

To show my love

Guess some secrets

Are best kept so.

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