everyone has a story and mine is painted
the color of the oceans on the bermuda coastline.
it’s so beautiful/sad/broken/much like art.
my skin sometimes shimmers like that lake by your
house in florida, the lake that knows how to dance
in the moonlight like we did that night when you
you put an arm over my shoulders and we swayed
like lovers to a song others have kissed so passionately to.
it’s funny. i saw you and i saw your story.
i saw it painted in sunsets,
and sun showers,
and tears in the rain.
you had a story with the colors of fresh bruises, and it intermingled with mine.
what if i let my soul spill out onto a canvas again?
would we be able to pretend
like this love never had to end
and could we blend our colors together
like the watercolor paints we’re made of
and transcend
above the pain and
the darkness
that envelops us
and our story?
what does it mean to have a story?
i wonder this, as i instinctively tell ours
and hope that i left some fingerpaint
on your heart.
i hope
you can set me apart from anyone you have ever loved.
i still love
you in color although my world's gone grey
even though i have to keep reminding myself that
your voice sounds like a violet galaxy
because it’s got the kind of stars i may never get to see
again.
once again i am left to watch a lover on the sidelines
and it’s like my
heart is forever breaking in the night time
and the daytime.
all the blasted time.
i’m crying on my knees
praying to a god i never used to believe
in but only a higher power could cause this bleeding
of love that i was seeking.
and now i understand the meaning in
be careful what you wish for.
and i am unsure
of what i miss more.
the purple streak in your hair,
the look in your eyes,
the embraces,
the kisses,
the glow in the dark,
the float above the ground,
the couldn’t care less,
the sounds,
of your voice,
your laugh,
your heartbeat,
the way you’d effect my heartbeat…
i had stars in my eyes, babe,
but the stars bleed
and i hardly see
anything but what we
used to be.
we used to be everything in every galaxy
and me?
i used to be,
i used to be,
i used to be free.
can’t you see it’s killing
me, turning my colors grey?
can’t you just
wouldn’t you just
please just
stay.
stay a moment while i find the right words to paint.
the right words to say.
words the color of love/fear/the bay/promise.
because i love you like a promise
soft, pale blue, and the skyline,
ever present, never evanescent and true.
i want to continue this story,
because we were so lovely
and we had so much more
in store.
of love, paints, and stories