Faded ink.
Deep, majestic black to a shy blue
hints at a thrill that no longer thrives
but serves an imprinted reminder
of a time that breathed happiness.
Around and around,
days into nights,
we grew into each other
without notice.
Weighted contours
made beautifully complex shapes,
we’d twist and curve
harmonic and sound,
constantly moving
in these flawless, repeating circles.
When it ends—
[and it will,
because the monotony
of the same motion
will scare you]
you’ll be left wondering how
you could sit there and become
so immersed in something
that was so perfect and simple.
Perfectly simple.
You stop and step back.
You breathe and regret.
You take it in and admire.
The saddest part
is to realize that this piece is left
unfinished.
No closure, no color,
just the monotone outlines
of some gorgeous, accidental idea.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 4:28 PM UTC
Faded ink.
Deep, majestic black to a shy blue
hints at a thrill that no longer thrives
but serves an imprinted reminder
of a time that breathed happiness.
Around and around,
days into nights,
we grew into each other
without notice.
Weighted contours
made beautifully complex shapes,
we’d twist and curve
harmonic and sound,
constantly moving
in these flawless, repeating circles.
When it ends—
[and it will,
because the monotony
of the same motion
will scare you]
you’ll be left wondering how
you could sit there and become
so immersed in something
that was so perfect and simple.
Perfectly simple.
You stop and step back.
You breathe and regret.
You take it in and admire.
The saddest part
is to realize that this piece is left
unfinished.
No closure, no color,
just the monotone outlines
of some gorgeous, accidental idea.
© Bitsy Sanders, August 2015
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