the tip of a perfectly rounded felt pen
pressing with both purpose yet restraint,
the ink taking to the paper as if magnetic,
then spreading slow and sure

that is how it was,
perhaps still is,
between you and I

as I try to  think of an answer;
a way to figure it all out
and leave it
in a nice tidy heap
behind us

those around me seem have to stumbled
purposely or not,
onto the answer  
maybe they just put themselves out there
and do the only thing there really is left to do:

Carry on

sooner or later
the past loses it's luster and appeal
like last years pair of Louboutin's
out with old, in with the new

but no matter how far into the future
my heart continues to carry on
no matter how much luster and appeal
fades away from the shiny patina
of my idealized love

still,
you mar me

like a water colored stain of faded ink,
bled soft and permanent