I often go through the old chats (paintings)
Of people who felt like home,
People who didn’t carry a palette with them—
Their colors were in their eyes,
And we both thought
This would last (I knew it wouldn’t).
But their painting lingered with me,
A brushstroke on my heart.
They were my lovers,
For an hour,
For a day,
They gave me love, hope (for a day),
A flower I pressed in my journal,
Between pages of unspoken words.
They were romantic (I was romantic),
We were about to fall in love…
But they grew tired, I took the colors,
We just began to hold the paintbrush,
But they shaded the canvas,
Leaving it unfinished.
I cried for the flowers,
Their petals withered,
It perished—
Love,
My lover for an hour.
