blood from our wounds paints a picture
admired only as it hangs on a wall
smell, touch, taste, and sound
all futile in this moment
sight only, is what guides us
far away we stood, admiring the red saturated strokes that told our story
an impasto of textures, you didn't need to touch to understand
reaching out
we watched paralyzed version of ourselves
fall into recollection
of the pain, the joy, and the solace we once knew