one day
it will be easy to breathe
my lungs will inhale flowers
and honey
it will be second nature
like riding a bicycle
like tying a shoe
like swallowing a pill
and i will hold on
tightly and
with shaking hands
until then

you were never an artist.
I tied your hands behind your back,
placed a paintbrush between your teeth
and forced you to paint us a picture perfect dream.
the colour was never rich enough
and the sun never cast gold beams
in the direction we wanted them,
or as bright as they could have
if I just learnt to paint on my own.