I lay down to sleep, but the smell of acrylic paint keeps hovering,
so strong it seems to be coming out of the top of my head.
Even after a shower and bed, that smell,
it is reminding me of work unfinished.
That smell of a start, put on hold for necessity,
but I want to paint all night through… my mind gets foggy for lack of sleep.
But the smell is a ghost of things unaccomplished…
I don’t want to compramise.
She had held secret vigil all the time, without even thinking about them:
she had re-claimed the word ‘Yup’ in her text conversations,
she had re-homed their polka-dot items,
she had baked the same recipes…
she had eaten from the bowls they left behind,
and she had stroked the hair away from her own face,
just the way she remembered it was done.
It was the way she tasted life,
just the way they had changed her was a secret thing
because she was without them.