Art Kills

They’ve got it all wrong.

Love is not the paint,

it’s not even the canvas.

Love is me working on it –

trying to figure out

the color of the sunset

and you coming up

from behind; punch

a hole through my chest,

hand me a betrayal that

tastes like glitter and dye.

Love is me looking down

at the red like it’s

a newly invented color –

holding out my brush

to dab at blood

saying:

Thank you.

This is exactly the shade

I was looking for.

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18 thoughts on “Art Kills

  1. I can only respond with your own words:

    “Thank you.

    This is exactly the shade

    I was looking for.”

    This took my breath away. Art/love is just exactly such.

Thoughts? I love those.

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