Chromasomniō

His eyes... I can't quite capture them. Hooked under heavy lids, sleep shadows of viridian and phthalo green. A wash of ultramarine. An easy smile creases his face so the sunlight catches; gold, chartreuse, and peridot join hands to dance circles around a pitch pupil.

The sharply bitter taste of paint breaks my focus. I'm chewing again. I relinquish a mottled paintbrush into my water cup, stepping back from the canvas. Real sunlight filters into the studio, dappling over linoleum tiles and my ratty sneakers as if they were one connected form. I sink into the comfort of the warm space like a bubble bath - willowy drop cloths, strewn paint tubes ripe for plucking, slow guitar filling all the empty spaces.

He plays, watching me. He practices while I paint him. I'd surely fall into his tanned fingers and tawny curls that move as he breathes life into the maroon bass, that is, if I could get past his eyes.

And I'm not there yet.

It seems impossible to dream up a color that doesn't exist. One that knows no name, never before chosen and drawn from the earth by elder masters, never dipped into and brushed upon a masterpiece.

I know this much: his eyes hold some flurry of green. A tree canopy, a moss bed, a burning sage. If I keep painting enough layered hues, maybe I can be the one to bloom a color into existence. The right red, blues, and yellows just haven't met yet.