They say artists can never hope to love each other
the right way.
Me the writer,
in my smock of words,
you the painter, drenched in egg yolks
and skies on blue canvas—
the two of us,
blithe doves,
trying to define ourselves by
the smiles of the horizon.

You laugh when we fight (it's
when I love you most)
because we're neither wholly there;
I sing more than I speak,
you dabble in truths,
and we both hide from flowers burning slowly on our graves.

And we get so caught up in capturing a moment,
sometimes we forget that forgetting makes
the most beautiful watercolors.

But then again, we're both disbelievers,
and we can never recollect
(when you say you're wrong,
but I know you think you're right.)