Pain is inconvenient.
It’s all I ever think about when the shower runs cold and the milk’s gone off and so too my favourite book becomes soured in my memory.
Because it once felt your hands as closely as I and it’s managed not to fall apart,
but what a stupid thought,
that an inanimate object is the best manifestation of my love.
And had I been able to express it maybe the pages would have been pulled apart and mirrored my heart.
And though they can’t start bleeding feelings in place of tear stained ink,
on every poor soul’s clean hands,
like my fingertips failing to read signs of “do not touch”,
I always say be warned, the ink stains, and one drop of poison falls fluidly down the hatch.
I paint portraits on unfamiliar bodies and it’s never the same,
but a likeness of cloudy blue, dirt, and pain.
