Picture perfect perception
of what washes
                      over observations
of what we saw,
         loitering over soiled sheets.


We gestated over what we thought
                        was a perfect portrait.
But beneath solid reflections we slept on.

Moths of discontent chew beneath the
        layers of what we dress
                                         our relationship on.
Decaying virtues, they show disrepair of
what you painted. But its eroded beyond
contemplation, nothing is as our sight verses it.