I pictured the faint outline
we would make
on a blank slate.
We never held hands,
though we knew how to hold ourselves
together enough to feel it
when we brushed shoulders.
I began brushing by her
until the canvas gave way to color.
I filled in the blanks in hurried strokes,
the empty places
I pictured finding her in
or the questions she may have been
the answer to.
I began painting madly
on top of our undone outline
with the color of cherry blossoms
in full bloom
falling, the act an art in itself
whether she loves me or not.
We were barely a sketch
that I started without her.
There wasn't enough to see-
only the abstract impression
she left behind and the inspired
energy
that swept
my brush away
as the paint ran out.
I never knew what we were.
I felt what we could have been.