I could visualise my brain as the inside of an art museum.

Every wound and every scar on white canvases; 4’10” , 51’15” ,

As much as I’d imagine, as rare as it’d be,

It lit up one by one,

In progression to no music,

whatsoever.

I did a little dance moving from veins as strokes;

But, I of no colour, just bold sketches and lines with no fillers.

29 hours of open gallery,

5 more for the overtone,

Deep blues and mellows;

I’d lie if you said you saw them all before.

On different doors, across different streets,

On some Hotel sheets it bleeds,

The innocence trapped in her mind;

You say it’s because you never got over it in time.

But you see the depths,

The fissures too,

The same cuts, different depths too,

It fit right in your hands,

You felt it was only for your hands,

But the brushes were just tools,

And they made moulds of tropical brass,

Something sharp enough to cut layers of skin,

Edges that made you feel it’s worth every touch of it.

Little did you know,

You know as much as you do about art now,

Because inside her brain

You bled on to her,

Every time you touched a new surface,

The way you discovered,

The unravelling lavish mystery,

It did hurt even now,

Cause you never really escaped her insides,

The 5 hours was you invested in her,

Every busy Sunday, where you stayed saying she wouldn’t mind.