Epistles for my thorned metaphors

it's you all i need

iknow art doesn't
need to be perfect.
but you—a living art,
and perfect.
i know poem doesn't
need to be poetic.
but when i see you,
my heart beats in rhyme.
i know brushes does
confer us color.
but why my brushes
refuse to give color when
your shades is lost in sight?

everything i mentioned
asks me to exist.
but the time i lost you;
i died.