blank canvases, empty pages surround me,
the remnants of an ex-connection.
i was “the light,” you were “the truth.”
emotions twisted into thunderous explosions
camouflaged as paintings and poetry.
the color of your love, envy green, polka
dotted with dark indigo shades of pointless
suspicion that seeped out my ink pen
producing melancholy metaphors on
death, heartbreak, depression.
i wrote my feelings in scarlet stanzas
across your slate heart, you altered love
to shattered faces and disfigured bodies
called art, dedicated to me – a flawed
model for your gifted hands.
you painted while i wrote, alone.
Together: no art, no poetry.