I wonder if it isn't that the brush is too heavy, but that it's always been too heavy

Every moment bleeds into others, as watercolors do in a child's artwork.
There are no words in this studio, no sounds, simply the music and an echo.
I think I was crying out to you.
I think I knew you once.

You remain poised and graceful while I'm battered in this stretch of color,
in patterns of light and dark.
I work in an interval and my palette has only the color of the season, therefore I can't paint you entirely.
It serves me right, for to take you in at once would be the death of me.

My older works turn ashy and crumble, and a haze descends upon my feet.
The fog of flaky remnants climbs the air to look at me, and I realize these are not paintings. These little specs of dust are just pieces of myself that I have given to every minute, only for them to become freer then me and glide along the thermals in a comfort I shall never know.