I've Seen Him

His hands look ordinary. Yet I know they're not. I know that when he dips them in water, liquid rainbows flow out in rivulets from the tips of his fingers. The colors overriding, embracing, dancing with each other to and fro for paintings that are there one moment, gone the next. I know he can stain the sand with touch. Black when he's angry, sharp, and unforgiving, the whole desert a deep blood red. And paint the skies purple and silver. I've seen him paint the moon human. He colors everyone he touches. He paints music with one caress and light with a wave. He makes darkness when he plucks out colors one by one and crushes them in fine silver dust that he holds in the palm of his hand. I've seen him touch the rain and make every drop fall a color. Running his hand through feelings, he can change their hues to emotion filling out the dark parts of the painting with vibrant tones and the cold ones with warm. I've seen him paint words and breaths, heartbeats and magic. He paints nothing and everything, what he sees and doesn't. His colors can speak and words paint. I've seen him.