Thursday, March 31, 2011

I was a stolen canvas.
First by you, and then another.

You earned for yourself
A back, covered in the stickiness of

Fresh white paint,
Thrown against the wall

In my retrieving.
I was worth it then.

When we embraced you saw
I had been painted black

We became
The ying and yang of our conceptions.

But when you tell me things aren't going well

Do you care less than I do?

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