I’ve painted a picture of her on my window
so I can see her, but also to fill the horizon;
only, it’s dripped, it looks like her entire body is crying.
“But look at all the colours,” I know she’d say.
She’d point out how they’re mixing into something new.
I close the curtains, but still the stench of paint.
Later on, consoled by John Darnielle
like a drop or two of whiskey in baby’s bottle
I drag myself up by the eyes and peel
the curtains open like a plaster. The sun
is a corpse sprawled against the glass
and in my head she tells me just wait for night.
And sure, it soon comes along like a bucket
full of soapy water, but the glass is thick
and of course it can only clean the outside.
With the onset of winter the sun starts to stink less of death
and the leaves on the trees like rustling eyes start to close.
The paint has stopped running all over itself and frozen
and I spend the day cleaning my canvas and rinsing my brush.
Slights of colour cling to the strands like blood
but the stains on the sink are dispersed with a burst of water.