You were a piece of art. I never quite understood you, but you had a way of captivating every inch of me. With you, I felt the sheer intensity of colour; I began to feel textures and form, and sense the pure vexation of space, as it built between us. You took every part of me and turned it into liquid poetry. I drew audiences and spelt sorrow with my fingers, as the words dripped intrepidly from my lips. But soon, your auspicious illustrations and my tempest, violent words were nothing of the same. Both beautiful and far too convoluted for any mind, but never flowing from the same river; simply destined for different oceans.