He is so monotonous. He is a character profile for something that trembles in the light of Greatness. He is probably more than I know; though what I do know, I value in all its usualness.
And then there's you, beautiful complicated thrashing you. Radical and unwilling and impressionable to the subtle and disarming. You are more than you know; and you so often wish, as I do, that you could see that.
He is so impressive, but then so are you. You both keep your secrets close enough to touch, then make sure that close is never close enough. Why do you hide, why do you tease.
You're a vague figure on a white background in matte reds and navy blues, throwing your stories in a canvas bag to-go, for leaving, for later. He's black and white and dripping with saturation and dyed in contrast, pulling his pictures out, parading his life a minute at a time.
But inside me, your secrets are piling up, and his are leaving in quarters.
I wish I could write you out in better colors. I wish I could pull out the patterns and stitch together a you and a him and an entire web of people whose eccentricities make things easy. But unraveling you is so much more fun.
Though tiresome, and sometimes painful.
As reality always is.
