Your favourite colour is purple and mine is blue and how’s this for romanticism but combined they resemble the shade of a pretty majestic bruise. Before I met you, I’ve seen sunsets merely going through the motions, a wash of luminescent hues rooted in a never-ending sky of circumstance and survival. Every tint on the spectrum looks the same when filtered through the prism of a muting and diluting fog. But I’ve discovered firsthand, sometimes the clouds hang so numerous and low in order to insulate us from the worst of ourselves. Before you called me your poet, at one time we were literally strangers visiting the same destination. But it wasn’t yet our time to be the other half to one another’s rhyme. You stand keeping watch over your meat on the barbecue to ensure its fully cooked, and I stand by you to watch so that you’ll never again get burned by any unexpected flames. The first time I saw your fiery side I witnessed the strength of words of your own, the gravity of a coveted conviction. We are placing our trust in a process built on belief and moving forward without a clear view of the stars. I am your poet. You are more than my muse. Look how beautiful the sunsets are.