you don't pretend to be an innovator—
no masterpieces will scrape by these hands—
but you still have a way about you with how
you glimpse the subtle detail of a shape
and curve it with your gaze like a caress.
they taught you color theory in school,
but the blues circle round the reds and yellows
till you're spun dizzy by this view of the world—
the fragments of a painting left unfinished.
but most of all you see yourself in the mirror,
this lopsided take, more sketch than final product,
your mouth a yawn of pink in the reflection
with your throat burrowing to black, a void.
soon enough you'll be turning strokes into reality,
your decisions spurring actions leading to consequences,
and someday you might see a rainbow in your stead—
just not today, not yet, since you're still a work in progress.
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