It is not some dusty frame,
hanging rusty nails;
chaotic mess.
No es amor solo amar, to you,
just some language you,
can't comprehend.
Distraught, despaired, disheveled,
a dystopian novel notion,
romanticized.
There's no need;
you don't need to patronize.
Cold hand upon cold hand;
lifeless smiles colluding.
And as if you were a Monet sunrise,
my impression of you is that of drunken brush strokes,
dull blues,
and angry orange hues,
Left on display within a rotting, wooden frame.
