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I try painting you in the morning but you fidget around and I mess up your face.

Keep still.

You keep looking around for me.

Keep still.

My hands give in and your neck is surprised; within chords can’t find the power to vibrate eloquently as before.

Keep still.

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.

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