Dramatic Hand Brushes

Thunderously tumultuous rumbles whizzed in pours.
We listened to those sounds while our fingers softly crossed.
Sprinkled after showers sparkled in spectrumed ranges,
Lying on curvatures of ridged polycarbonate awnings,
You ridded off rigidly with ragged towel like cloth
Against wistful pleas of please don’t’s
As traces of those droplets evaporated.

I’d try recreating pieces
With tubular glitters
Unable to recapture
The beauty we saw.

Diminishing images
Of compositions;
Lost expressions
Of those vibrancies.

I heard you say
“Try anyway.”

But you left that day

And took
My fucking glitter.

“Try anyway.”

Empty

In retrospect, I should be grateful, for
Being given the chance to witness
Scribbled extensions of undeciphered labor
Where figures posed in lines of incantations
Were carved as illusory caves of historical
Hysterics on breathable skin parchments,
For I’d have never learned to transpose
The technical aspects of applying those
Specific pressures on zinc plated panels.

I should be grateful, that the time I spent
Searching for healing lines weren’t wasted

Then why is it that I feel like crying
When I think of how I’ve lost images of his faces
When I still have these lines that fill up these pages
Even while silent whispers of finally met passion’s keep calling my name?

 

 

 

Then the susurrus of familiar experiences soothe
In how it didn’t seem so vastly different in its birth
In each of those misstroked hatchings.

But it was.