I try painting you in the morning but you fidget around and I mess up your face.
You keep looking around for me.
My hands give in and your neck is surprised; within chords can’t find the power to vibrate eloquently as before.
My brush slips and your eyes melt; within pupils can’t believe a vision so toxic, they burn.
To stop painting or hope for your stillness?
To stop beating or wait for your illness?
And between hoping and waiting, I kneel to pick up my brush and you catch my eyes.
I know you from somewhere.
I know I know you from somewhere.
An instant. A glimpse. Then you go back, looking around for me.
All that time, I am standing there with a brush. You keep looking around for me, you keep looking around for her.