I wish I was an artist
With paint to capture you
Then I might possess
Minds Eye's crystal view

It can't be done in camera
Sharp perfected defective image
No, requires vision
Deft touches, false angles, muted hues

I see you coying tempting
Upon a divan not of our rooms
Perchance for another
Only you can choose

Imagery drips in mixing colors
New colors burst forth failing quickly
I adumbrate my heaven
Inadequate fingers too stiff for my will
Fading never bright
Too pale when needing dark
Touchstone turns obscure

Chance is singular here
Enough perhaps
For talented brush
But me
I've spilled and smeared
Leaving shards of ruined plate glass

Hand dropped now
Impatience's signal
Tossing back your hair
I see it now
But clumsy fingers cannot hold
Brush, nor you