Of Pretty, Incomplete Pictures

I sit here,
with you and the pretty picture
you painted on the brick wall.
The amalgamation of colors;
the home of curiosity;
the art reeking of beauty;
tiny flowers;
tinier details;
some abstraction of sorts.

And I try to find myself there.
Tucked in some tiny detail,
a part or me, but I can’t find it.
Think about me and bring all my poems out,
you will find yourself there.
All the time.
But where am I,
in the pretty pictures you
paint on the brick walls?

Listen, love, paint me one day,
the complete picture,
with all the colors there are.
But keep some holes behind.
I need to fill some poems there,
without them,
how do I even think of being complete, ever?

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