I sometimes wish I were a painter
A master of the Summer palette
sandy beach beige,
earthy brown
sun-baked-rock white
And bold lines
to paint you over and over again
every morning
caressing with long soft strokes
the lines that make up you.
Or maybe a sculptor,
Able to tease silk out of granite,
warmth out of marble
Chiseling your form out of a block of stone
softness out of hardness
like you
my creature of contradictions.
Instead I deem to be a poet,
Stuck in an eternal search of words
to express the pleasure I find in your existence
At once content and discontent
Forever on the hunt of verse
another creature of contradictions,
Am I.
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