His face is a geometry one could summarise in eight lines
but I would not, because no simple shape can do it justice.
His features are softer than lines;
his silhouette, more intense than blurs;
his eyes are darker, and a single look captures
many hours that feel more real than the dreams where they pass.
I have yet to figure out which of them is art:
his face, his smile, his voice
his disposition?
Or mine, having looked into him at all through the yellow-hazed screens.
He holds no paintbrush, only dances like how mine does in watercolour.
Neither are his photographs any sort of extra-ordinary,
yet somehow each thought of him comes with a desire to paint
With a call to follow my lenses outside and capture the world in our eyes
like how he has been my fancy.
Suddenly I remember older dreams I once thought were much too far off.
Maybe I had walked far enough since then
as now they seem much closer than ever.
Somehow I sense visions of a gallery
where this time it’s him who sees
in the middle of an ocean of crowd
My own soul in acrylic
And we shall let destiny decided whether we ought to witness
the full cycle of things.