pretended empty.

And here lies the canvas.

Blank and daunting.

Begging my words to be real.

But how can they?

To please both the love

And the lover.

To bring to smile both the heart

And the beloved.

And the silence is a catalyst

Producing more of it’s kind

Over in her mind

For someone else

And someone new.

Blades of organic

Shoot up sporadically 

But not enough 

To rapture a soul.

Now that words exist,

The page stands blank as ever

Tempting to recall memories

Of a life in dreams.

Why for you, always you?

Instead of the committed? 

To love in endless cycles,

Or live like unwashed intervals?

Maybe the wiser

Would leave blank the canvas.