a love in print and paint

a love in print and paint

back then it almost felt heaven sent,

we were slow dancing models in a child's ornament,

our heads kept spinning,

full of stars!

I'm not sure what we had,

but I knew it was ours nonetheless.

with one hand on the small of my back,

the other in mine,

we moved to the record that was playing on repeat in our heads all along;

the symphony that was silent to everyone else,

was a beautiful song to the two of us,

rising and falling like the waves of an ocean.

we were lovers,

lovers that were doomed from the start.

it was broken clockwork,

the dancers both falling apart as the time they had together fell quickly beneath their feet.

was it all just a dream?

have I just woken up?

I sit alone, 

staring at the artwork of our love,

knowing that words are the only way to mend a broken heart;

my life is a fiction that is unfound and real life is the image in writing staring back at me.

the protagonist has lost hope,

and the typewriter pauses to find her words.

they are slowly found,

slowly painted on the page,

like teardrops, 

they fall delicately onto the page,

pouring every intimacy of our story into print and paint.

in an instant,

her soul is released from the cage it had been kept in.

towards the end,

you lay there, dying,

like the end of a western,

asking me what Europe was like.

that place I ran too before we had finished,

how was that? you ask,

how was it with him?

at the coast, every star seems so near, 

but you wouldn't know,

having been gone so long.

all those years we lost are closer to us than you think.

the ocean,

as quickly as it took you from me, brought you back.

in her artwork of our story,

the ocean rose on like a dream,

and into the distance, forever, so it seems.