love bite // poetry

negative space

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"But in order to survive in this foreign world, I had to teach myself that love was very much like a painting. The negative space between people was just as important as the positive space we occupy. The air between our resting bodies, and the breath in our conversations, were all like the white of the canvas, and the rest our relationship- the laughter and the memories- were the brushstroke applied over time."

~Alyson Richman

inspiration strikes him as a trap to a hare
the paint brush strokes to conceal his despair
his eyes shine jovial with grief and his throat burns dry
he rushes to the bay; the smile on his face is a silent war cry.

there the fire runs rampant; the flames arranged in perfect disarray
he shivers in anticipation and wills his heart to obey
the blank canvas he grasps in his hands shakes with fear
the first acidic tear burns but it is at least sincere.

the fire, it scorches his eyes
striving to reveal his loosely kept lies
the sullied paintings on defective walls - sway in beat to the thrum of his heart
each holds the white silhouette of a home; gradually working to tear him apart.

the ghost feeling of lips against his own makes him shudder
"two equaled to three and we equaled to me," as he watched her skip further away in wonder
the brush, it glides—the flow, the feeling—he is mesmerized by the throes of agony
he marvels at the sting of pleasure it brings as he further bows to his insanity.

his mind screams proudly—mon dieu!—it is a masterpiece
the rage of the colors just will not cease
but alas a divide there is in the center they can not reach
the gates of this home, they can not beseech.

he crumbles to the ground to bask in the heat;
his sixth anguish is now complete
the memory of flowing brown tresses tickles his nose and he sighs
cursing the masochist who created the craft of saying goodbye.

a beauty but as it is so, he throws it to the flames
though it steals a place on his walls; a fresh spectator to his dangerous games
he staggers to his feet, plagued with morbid shame
and curses the faulty brush he can't seen to tame.

his aim - to construct the perfect home
one where he will not sit by the fireplace alone
he is broken down, living in a pitiful word of fiction
but this truth is the hurt that further fuels his addiction.

he catches her eye on a hot summer day
he smiles sardonically - he has become such a mundane cliche
a match in his hand and his heart is a disgrace;
can you identify the negative space?

~km

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