Meathead Monologue

oil on canvas

there is a pair of blue hands on my wall,
just barely touching each other,
just barely sharing the last of the warmth.
the air around them is red and heated,
yet their skin is frozen to ice
and their fingers become weak.
soon, they can not even grasp each other.
love is dead.
the air around the blue hands smothers them
in eternal sleep,
until they melt and become two puddles,
never to touch in any way.
only to evaporate and become the rain.
but love's death is not in vain.
the rain that falls cools off my
red hands
because i am tired of holding fire.
and i am ready to hurt again.

r.k.