I still love you, like the things I’ve seen
inside a painted memory,
for the brush was my own
I walked next to the shore, as I laid by your side;
it was the same sensation,
the roaring colors of sound
on an empty beach; because what we gathered
came to rest against our ears
with the smiles of our world
lodged into my mind, though you were gone,
but not what I recalled;
you had to be yourself,
and that was the promise I made to you