I think about the pieces.
the way we scattered them on
the floor, the collage of unfinished
pictures in every room. we
never picked them up, never
put them back together.
does the picture remain
the same when it's never
really painted? that vision
in your mind, does it ever
become art? or is it the whisper,
the thought, fleeting and never
again? the single melody
in your head, played over
and over and over and over
but ultimately forgotten,
becomes the soundtrack
for things that could have
been but never were. becomes
the body on the bathroom
floor, sometimes she's naked and
sometimes she'd in that white
dress. she never wakes up,
though. she's the body of
everything you could have
been, never were.