The portrait is dusty, behind our bookshelf
Inked on a thick beige sheet of paper
We’re shades of black, quivering bodies
Our eyes evasive, no mirror of the self
Sitting through this ordeal to see a stranger
For her quill we cuddled, we were at ease.

Poetry, like art, is deceiving sometimes
I wrote you a sonnet and it was gibberish
You saw the craft, the ink, the form
But behind the words, what of the storm?
It was an attempt, you found it impish
A music piece of which you heard the rhymes.

April  5, 2018