The sky has been white-washed by my love.
The love that is not mine that paints me
in fields and oceans and with backdrops
of time,
that fade me out,
in acrylic paint.
I watch as the rain,
washes you away,
in the picture,
that you gave me,
such a long time ago.
And now you run down the gutters,
sinking in to the sewers.
Tell me,
do you see a pink bracelet down there?
I lost it when I was young.
Like I lost you.
And still your brush strokes
on the beats of my heart.
And you falter,
for a moment,
as you reach my lips,
unsure whether to paint me smiling,
or the way you always see me,
looking so, so sad.
Paint me in the skies,
so that the clouds can cover over our love,
and wash away our sins,
with the darkest rain,
like blood,
that finds its way to earth,
and soaks in as time,
finds a way to flourish,
in the eventual suffocation of our youth.
I wish I could wash away with the rain,
and into the sewers,
and find my love,
again.