Last night I made your image
out of forgotten tubes of pigment
from my box of bristled treasures.
As four-o-clock came creeping in
Heavy and candlelit, wild and silent,
I found my manic whirlwind
concluding with a conundrum.
The exact hue alluded me
to fill the windows to your soul
and all the frantic, crushing memories
Could not return it to me
I lay upon the floor
bathed in the beeswax glow
and slipped between the floorboards
And dripped into decay.
I lay in little droplets
upon my dusty cellar floor
gazing up between the old oak cracks.
I tried to reassemble
become the person I once was
but even this was futile
and as I realized my wound
I found the perfect hue for you
In the crystalline blue and violet
that lit the horizon at sunrise.
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