I'm sitting on your bed, and whatever you've been sleeping on I think I might've crushed it.
I've shred the roses and the fragerance still lingers and the pieces just sink into the carpet.
You laid me on the ground and traced my outline in a way no one had before, you filled me in the way that color meets light and soul meets body and when I stood back up to examine your work
I saw me in a different way.
You said "I am who you think I am, and you are who I think you are."
But I would never see myself that way. This was a piece of art.
You held the pencil to your lips and smiled elaborately.
In time you finished and your smile faded, the bloom was dying and you rushed it to save what we still had.
You washed your brushes and turned off the light, and on the door you hung a sign that said "Wet Paint".
There's much to explain, stories to exchange that will go well with a few good cups of coffee.
There are reasons, changes, chances to take and above all goodbyes to make--
cause if love was not really there, if what was said and drawn and implied was not really alive, I'd like to apologize for posing for something I shouldn't have.
I never tried to lie, only become the color that you thought I was.
But from the echo of the slam of the door I can tell that now is not the time to discuss what might've died.
So I'll just let myself out, and mind the paint.

Want to comment on this Poetry? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Poetry and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...