You said you liked painting
How an empty canvas gets adorned with colors,
an imagination comes to life.
I however did not.
Yet I started to draw.
Clouds that spelled your name.
Grounds of saffron,
a magical place where you and I can stay.
I drew your initials
and hid them as I hide,
my love from my words.
Like how I love you in secrecy.
I drew everything,
that reminded me of you,
with the enthusiasm of an innocent child.
But when you said you liked art,
you meant you liked divinity of hers,
because she.... was art herself.
Her radiant eyes would remind you of bright yellow color
and perfect sunny days.
Her spring-like smile could
change your frown into laughter.
Her face would remind you
of the intricate craft of terracotta,
carved into perfection.
Her voice would remind you of sunsets and waves,
subtle and calm.
To you, the way she simply was would leave Aphrodite and Artemis jealous,
or make DaVinci paint her,
or Yousuf Karsh photograph her,
or Michelangelo sculpt her.
You found colors among her in this black and white world;
while I found my world in you,
but it was never me, for you.
So I started to hate the smell of colors.
The perfect combination of a red and blue hue,
fusing into purple.
Messy hands that I’d once adored,
when I hoped to be like you.
I loathe how some objects like brushes and empty tubes,
had the power to give me sore aches.
I hate for fooling myself into thinking,
that doing what you love would make you love me.
I can’t stand this sheer jealousy, the agony ---
the repeating question of
“Why am I not anything like her?”
You had never admired what I do,
You never even noticed.
But mostly I really hate,
how it wouldn’t even cross your mind,
that I love you
[and yet I do].