The Artist, the Writer and the Unfinished Sonnet

It’s funny

When I think about how I felt.

I wanted to believe that it was

What a lie.

* * * 

You knew

That I was a writer,

Charmed by words,

With my head in the clouds

And a million stories in my soul.

You were an artist.

Your sketches voiced out

All the words you could never give.

You loved colors so much

That it stuck to your skin.

* * *

I didn’t know the power of colors,

Like you didn’t know the power of words.

We ventured into the unknown,

For the artist and the writer.

I tried to sketch and you tried to speak.

We both half succeeded.

You said a few lines

From an essay you wrote

And I was stunned.

I looked back to the sketch I made,

Resisting the urge to write a prologue.

I showed it to you.

You smiled.

But I didn’t see,

The light I was looking for.

* * *

It soon dawned to me

That we both misunderstood

What the other was saying.

You said the wrong words

And I used the wrong colors.

* * *

Was it wrong of me to hope?

Or was it wrong of you to make me feel special?

Perhaps it was the first.

I was only a shoulder to cry on,

A confidante to console

And a friend to trust.

* * *

Quite a waste of time.

I even wrote you a sonnet...

“I had monochrome vision ‘til you came,

You had intrigued me with your gentleness

Back then, I was a mustang yet to tame.

We were contrasting, like light and darkness.

Ironic that our talents are mixed up

You’re sad but with the power of color

While painting my smiles, were hard like I thought

Then, I slowly had feelings that were uncalled for.

One, two, three, four, goes my syllable count.

One point five, two point seven, you measure…”

...that I could never continue or forget.

The ten syllable-count seemed useless

It was weak.

* * *

I lost my skill of fitting in

Ten syllables or five iambs

In fourteen lines.

Because, I could no longer

Find the right words

That you stole from my heart.

* * *

Paint stains your hands,

And ink stains mine.

My notebook was your canvas.

But they can never be the same thing.

* * *

Worlds might just be too far apart.

For the artist and the writer

Who wrote an unfinished sonnet.