Strokes

Pissing words. I used to watch from a distance. Sleepy feet still turning pedals. Went too far, now I must drag myself home.

Like at a museum. There it hung guarded by velvet ropes. A painting so long ago created, yet the edges still wet. I don't think they'll ever completely harden.

Too few colors. That's what it was. Plenty of shadows, but not enough pigment.

Only the frame most notable. Distracting from the absence within it was meant to indulge.

I didn't want to own it. But I did feel compelled to add to it.

He can call it finished all he wants, but I know that it isn't.