Watercolor Confession

The golden snow fell lazily, you were slumped, absorbed in the blue and grey of the desk even though the blinds let the sun creep in, and exposed your pristine marble features. I could have reached out a hand, could have slipped beneath your conclusions, could have given you my watercolor confession.   I could have plunged into the murky waters of the rinsing cup. I could have spilled my memories, of vibrant red admiration, or explosive orange excitement, and excluded the indigo uncertainty. I could have extended my hand and allowed the sun to dry my watery canvas, evaporate the ambiguity.   And I’d confess: through the passions of red and green, the reasons of my inexplicable love to explore the shading in your character, the mannerism of your texture, painting your life in mine.   But time has revealed the truth, that I so desperately tried to paint over. We were never close.   I painted pictures of you, and kept them locked away in my chest. Yet, digging with my dripping paint brush, I hoped you’d share yours with me. But, my sparse memories, are smeared and lost, in the murky colors of what was once a clear cup of water to rinse the brush after painting, one color at a time.  

This poem is about: 
Me
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