concealing I might have sulked in your presence
and concealed the canvas
with the stained white sheets that you covered
the dinner table with
last night.
I might have allowed myself to get drowned
to the pelting rain,
picked up the paint brush buried in Van Gogh’s hues
in the old paint can and splattered the dead-end
of my stroke
but I hadn’t.
I have refused to do any of those
since your return to this room even if
the candle ran through of its brief, delightful existence
for again, we have chosen to be like strangers
swamped in the tension of silence
like the animosity of brushstrokes
in the stained canvas
I have left
hanging.
RV Escatron [rev.2007]
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Topic: we have chosen to be like strangers swamped in the tension of silence (Read 1512 times)