gray and blue and black
make up the angles and cheekbones
of you.
you're a painting with a film of dust
and i'm an attic that welcomes rust
broken windows, ripped screens
nests that house the emptiness of centuries,
and dolls that no longer have the mechanics to blink.
i guess you could form the conclusion
that i am a heap of broken things
floating inside a dead room
and you are a picture in a frame
that lives in shadows
etched in the silver starlight
of regrettable shame.