To me, an impeccable sketch, as stunning as when it’s painted. 
To her, an outline. 
For we both are colourless art to each other.

Maybe she'll make me into an equally beautiful piece.
Maybe she has to crumple it and start all over again.

The melancholy in me just wants it to be completely crumpled,
To not witness her passionately create another.
While the kid in me can't wait for us to complete each other.

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