Picture perfect perception
of what washes
over observations
of what we saw,
loitering over soiled sheets.
We gestated over what we thought
was a perfect portrait.
But beneath solid reflections we slept on.
Moths of discontent chew beneath the
layers of what we dress
our relationship on.
Decaying virtues, they show disrepair of
what you painted. But its eroded beyond
contemplation, nothing is as our sight verses it.