Who I love.
There is, to you, of what I observe,
A frame, myself, and you, the painting.
You have beauty that thunders a spark across the skies, above.
Love cannot any longer, lift it up,
All I may do is sculpt it, into a memorable form, of what I knew.
I knew, through portraits that still enrage me,
That your beauty will never set me free.
Of lashes that crawl along the pupils and irises
Of black and blue, like the bruises that color my back purple.
Of love that twists and screams,
Of two bodies, in lust, that emit a sheen,
Like the sun that never drops low enough
For shadows to grow long enough.
Your face was a kind gentleness,
And now is cruel torture.
Like enemies of dirt, we each flail
Out the sand to hit our cheeks,
Like enemies of death, we each resist
The call to land a blade to our wrists.
What is this that I hold in my hands?
Is it you
With two silver droplets,
Falling to two golden fingers?
What peace is there, here among us?