I try to paint you,
but the canvas becomes a tomb—
swallowing every color
because it knows
you were never meant to stay.
My brush shivers
like a heart on its last hope—
calling your face from the ashes,
yet every line melts
into a wound shaped like you.
How do I carve your light
from a night that keeps stealing you?
How do I hold your shadow
when even shadows abandon me?
You are the storm in my ribs—
a tender ruin,
a beautiful ache
that keeps breaking me open
just to remind me I once loved.
Still I chase you—
through silence, through darkness—
believing that if my longing burns bright enough,
you might slip back into my hands
like a miracle I was never meant to keep.
Nov 27, 2025
Nov 27, 2025 at 4:14 AM UTC
I try to paint you,
but the canvas becomes a tomb—
swallowing every color
because it knows
you were never meant to stay.
My brush shivers
like a heart on its last hope—
calling your face from the ashes,
yet every line melts
into a wound shaped like you.
How do I carve your light
from a night that keeps stealing you?
How do I hold your shadow
when even shadows abandon me?
You are the storm in my ribs—
a tender ruin,
a beautiful ache
that keeps breaking me open
just to remind me I once loved.
Still I chase you—
through silence, through darkness—
believing that if my longing burns bright enough,
you might slip back into my hands
like a miracle I was never meant to keep.