In a world where everyone starts off with a blank slate;
an empty page;
a white canvas and a single color
Me: a spring tulip yellow,
And him: a speckled robin egg blue.

Him and I started off, swirling across a new canvas bringing to existence every possible shade of green.
Slowly, surely, taking our time because why would we need to rush?
I thought,
If we were meant to be together, did that not mean we had all the time in the world?

Times got tough, challenging my pretenses.
Our paints started to dry,
Crevices pushed a barrier between separate colors and us to opposite sides of the bed.
The portions of blue and yellow were not equivalent any longer.

Then one day she swooped in,
A stray brush stroke of color...
R
      E
            D
His complement on the color wheel.
With her endless midnight hair
And calling carmine lips,
She was deemed something most men never wanted to miss.

She reached out forth,
Into his the heart of his tremulous deep blue abyss,
Not a moment of hesitation in her wake,
And touched his shoulder so light that it was if she kissed him with her fingertips.

In that instant
His face flushed rose,
His heart pumped crimson,
His lungs blended to wine as he lost his air
And his lips were bitten cerise whenever he reminisced in her impression.

From then forward, he was a changed color,
He'd always carry the tint of scarlet in his hue.
When anyone would look at him,
It didn't take an art critic to see,
In his strategic placement of primary colors,
He loved her too.

I watched hisself turn more and more pink,
As his canvas took part in a dance of violets,
Covering the verdant scene of grass created by we.
Erasing me;
As I similarly,
I scavenged for his left over ultramarines,
Becoming more and more viridescent in:
Envy,
Drowning in (his) blue.

She left as quickly as she came,
Like a first kiss that he were sure to miss,
Leaving her scarlet outline on his cheek.
He missed his primary color:
Someone that couldn't just be created or "made".

I tried to become his someone,
I mixed and mixed myself into shades of an almost reddish-orange but
Was never quite close enough to satisfy the color deficit she once filled.

He still has a bit of her color on his corner,
Myself alone,in my darkest shades, just can't cover it,
Yellow just isn't pigmented enough to overtake red.

I guess she was just meant to be part of his life,
Like the color of a violet had to be true,
In the painting of his life,
Our emerald green just wouldn't do.