The day after

The painting is done.

The red, the blue, the loss,

The fun.

The muse asks the artist

For a little more—

A little more life,

A little more sure.

The day after

The painting is done.

The orange, the pink, the loss,

The hidden sun.

The artist looks back

To the seconds before

They had finished something

So beautiful—

Making something no more.

The day after

The painting is done.

All the colors you can think of,

All the loss—and then some.

The world feels lighter

On the shoulders of

Us. Things feel freer,

And softer, and

Untouched.

The day after

The painting is done.

The muse asks the artist

What their purpose is.

The artist sort of laughs,

And smiles,

And frowns—all in one.

Then abandons everything

For a war never won.

The day after—

Everything is stilled.

I am cold and tired,

And empty of will.

But the day before,

I saw hearts in the sky

And felt, and heard,

The birds fly cheerfully by.

And nothing was ever gone.

Created and destroyed

At the same time.

And nothing was _never_ gone.

This art, this pain—

It’ll always be mine.