Your hair was the same floppy
purple on black, your eyes
as brown, your skin 
peach-pale, as usual, 
your laugh the same timbre 
and your hand clapped itself to forehead
in the same incredulous way -
but this portrait of you was overlaid
by different hues, different shades I did not
recognise.  There was
a certain thickness of line,
a subtle shift of emphasis,
an underlying calmness permeated
your face, your eyes;
through use of unknown oils
you had changed your self,
remoulded form and 
synchronised the diverse parts
into one whole man.  The boy within,
a canvas well-concealed, 
painted over with a specific brush - 
the nebulous difference 
hard to catch, hard to discern
from the overall painting of the man
the artist had done - the sound of your voice
alone betraying the difference in tone.
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