my friends are a museum (pt. 1)

she is watercolor. 

splashes of pastels blend and blur and bleed and become more beautiful.

she's a flurry or iridescence in a blank canvas world.

her outlines are black ink illustrated with a careful hand, 

but her colors defy the lines drawn for her.

one look at her sunset sky soul and stress just seeps out of you.

monet's impressionism couldn't capture the impression she gives.

van gogh's stills can't frame her whirring flurry of life.

pollock's numbers came close with the colors, but lacked her control.

she is utterly unpaintable, unpredictable, and unrepeatable.

and i love her with all my rainbow heart.