Stained

You are such an enchantment.

There is no stone, pebble,

or shard of glass in this world

that doesn’t know your name,

doesn’t wear it on them like

a sheen left from some

late summer rain,

like the fog of a breath

captured in a mirror,

metastasized into memory,

splattered across everything

that breathes.

I carry you on me,

the touch of your hand

against mine leaving

violent stains like bruises,

but given with the gentlest

of caresses,

a photograph in flesh,

to tell that you were here,

that you were on everything.

The sky is blue because

you’ve wept it your sorrows and

the sunset is red because

you’ve kissed it your love.

The world spins on,

oblivious to its maker

as well as the man who

slipped in, invisible

in the night, and

left it so lovingly

stained.

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