The Blood & The Bones

~Unfinished~

the art of forgetting is not art at all

to paint over the between, the end, the fall

blanking over, blotting out

the pretty memories, the plentiful doubt

a white blank canvas it can never be

crumpled, tattered, barely clean

but underneath the heart will beat

it’s darkened chambers full of memories

of you, of us, of what we were

the strokes of our love can never be blurred

I swore I’d forget, I swore I could

but the act of forgetting is misunderstood

no one tells you of lonely nights

or the remembering in the lullabies

the smell of spice and the shades of green

the reminders of you that haunt me

our colors we made that can’t be unknown

the canvas we painted with our own blood

the two steps forward and five stumbled back

to completely let go, to paint it black

to muddy the green with purples and blues

stripping and erasing with blankets of hues

to cover your laugh, the love, the truth

I am no artist, this I cannot do

the art of us, the hurt, the stain

the silver tears and the blackened pain

that is the art I’ll keep with me

for there is no forgetting our masterpiece