I am telling you someday I am going to draw something, 

Something with blue colour and black shades. 

But first I need to find my page  you know, a blank page with nothing but infinite white solace. 

Girl, I don’t think I have touched your face enough to paint it but I know where your moles are, 

And they will appear like surreal magnetism over my blue patches and indifferent brush works.  

Perhaps I would place your breasts in opposite corners, 

Existential black dissapearing into a blue point, defining the gravity of all creation.

And for the best part I am going to lay my brush aside, 

Just fingers and some memories with colours and those ancient touches. 

I think that will do for your eyes to appear somewhere between that shapeless face and those watery breasts. 

My painting will always remember those parts my love but fading shapes were never your destiny. 

But I can’t paint that time, I need you to capture that in a silent page. 

I think a mutual tranquility is much poetic than a dizzy, uneven painting right?  

That brush should not be found again. 

Let me throw it away into the pool of fragment memories. 

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