Empty Canvases

It's perhaps, this constant state of waiting, for someone who won't return.

We have this weird, drunkenness about us,

A fantasy of running into each other,

Clashing into our other halves,

When we should probably realize

Just 'me' is enough.

To stop with the breaking or to feed these demons,

To lick these wounds, or,

Welcome the renewal after the burn.

If it is God that crafted us,

How can art born from sheer divinity,

Create so much terror?

If our love,

Is a race,

A struggle,

Why am I the only one running?

Maybe, the world doesn't need to be tougher,

Maybe, the sun and moon could be happier,

Just with their own selves.

Maybe, they wouldn't have to fly apart

With a single fleeting kiss,

Running forwards,

Look towards,

The next eclipse.

Maybe, the world,

Doesn't need to be tougher.

Maybe, we could be just a bit secure,

As there is strength is self,

And a fight isn't always worth it.

Maybe sometimes,

This canvas that we become,

To be someone's aid to art,

Maybe all the color they add,

Would finally become meaningless emptiness,

The void you wanted so desperately to be filled,

Would become darker than black.