We waltzed in stokes.
We slid and bent.
We lifted, caressed.
We captured the rapture.
So much
welled up and spilled out
onto the page.
—
But you left my studio.
—
Now with no way to express,
paint pools deep in my chest,
and I scratch the dry white canvas,
sadly scratch the canvas.
—
As my worn and washed brush brushes blank cloth,
the image disappoints.
A shade haunts the sheet
manifest in this featureless masterpiece.
It bears no hint of you.
—
Beauty unbeautiful.
I’m suffering from what I thought we could make,
from an art ache.