Self-Portrait Sadness

If you're lost,
show me the colors you like
and I'll paint a picture of your confusion.
A pallet in hand,
the wood chipped and forlorn,
grey and blue dance on the canvas,
a slow waltz.
Smiling, he raises his glass,
the laugh lines near his eyes
expose the true warmth of his character.
Shoulders bare,
draped lightly, a river of satin sheets
enfold her for the perfect touch.
You might very well be perfection,
he sing-songs.
She laughs.
Perfection doesn't exist.