Untitled #19

My love is an impressionist painting,

illusions of light from your eyes

that once held clear blue skies

but have been replaced by bloody sunsets.

You told me you are black

a mixture of all the colors,

an absorption of all the feelings that haunt your head.

I love like van Gogh's sanity,

sometimes there,

sometimes not.

And you'll wonder if it's hidden under 

the layers of paint

I mask myself with,

but I don't hide anything but the truth 

from myself. 

I can't hear your heartbeat

not because I don't want to, 

but because I don't need to,

it's already encoded in my head,

permanently engraved in my bones. 

I love like Jackson Pollock,

too much and not enough

all at the same time. 

Abstract expressionism

of my tangled emotions 

based off of the way you touch 

my skin.

My love is art

it's not beautiful , 

not made to impress

nor searching for your endless empty approval,

but it'll move the ocean inside your vacant heart

and wake up the thunder in your veins

shaking out the numbness

until your quivering body

feels the electric shock

of the wholeness of this stupid little thing

called love.