The painting I held

forced onto my wall

had a soft top layer

the prettiest of all

 

I watched it at night

prodding the ink and the paint

regardless of pleas

It bore the same fate

 

I set it in frames

I painted those, too

waiting for just one

of the colors to move

 

that painting I held

grew dust by the day

I could no longer see

the shape of your face

 

and when our art fell

it made no sound

the color fell out

the frame hit the ground

 

I looked at the mess

thought of painting another

I liked my frame without

the shade of your color

 

I made up my mind

grabbed a mop and a broom

wiped the ink from my floor

left the frame for the room

 

Sometimes I watch

the stains on the floor

that color of ours

it bled to my core