Paint your eyes red. Fold broken hands, praying to what is dead. Speak in gentle whispers, encasing your soul in a frozen tear held back for many years. Love blooms on your back, with the rain, the dew finding meaning in nothing new. Cry for departure, for the ships carrying your earth to bring you home, to birth. What time is love? Which day will you next grieve, absent in the story, shameful in the memory? Was the sky blue in the answer given? Was the sky gray when love was sent to Heaven? Your heart was pulled on puppet strings, while you became the wandering puddle, the great, bleeding days beneath the storm, beneath the fewest rays. You are in love beyond your touch.