I have tried over and over to mend the broken pieces of a shattered love, rough scarred hands cracking in the center of chaos, twisting and turning, stretched and stabbed, a banging beginning hovering over nothing, as my eyes twitched back and forth, trying to understand why the waves of your love wouldn't settle down. The whipping wind was beating my soul into submission, drumming its slashed rhythms upon my frame, dizzy vowels smeared and struggling in black cold rivers, while I stared at the ripped portrait painting of us hanging on the stained wall, smoky hues running off course, crashing and undone, unrecognizable negatives shifting beneath wronged worlds. I could see your rusted brown eyes in my mind, how every single shape sifted inside blackened light, blurred, flooding gray, a dying moon lingering in the sky. I thought I could paint over your scratchy surface and turn you into an astonishing masterpiece. But the more I gazed at the scarlet blazed brushstrokes, how their shadowed existence diminished in the dark, how hard its surface stung my flesh, I knew that everything between us had vanished over the horizon.