Still

I tried to love you under the radar

I was unsuccessful even then

Depsite failing myself humiliatingly

I convinced them the truth was what I knew was pretend

I stayed up many countless nights

Counting the silhouettes of stars on my ceiling

And in the end I found myself wondering

About all the possible things you could be doing

I still don’t know how many there are exactly

Because I’m constantly getting lost in the sea of one

I could associate every point on those stars with you

Never realizing the lengths my unconscious mind had gone

So I stopped counting and started painting

You wouldn’t believe what I produced

I thought this would be different, wrong

I did all but paint portraits of you

Picasso, Dalí, Manet

None could capture the essence of what I wanted

Yet, in a single, few mindless strokes

I tortured a canvas with ideals of you for the third time

Seemingly drowning inside my intent

I abandoned painting and returned to my passion

Took only but a second to fall back in habit

I revelled in ecstasy

There, a platform, for your likeness to live

A place to indirectly write a starry portait of you

I had succumbed to the modern forms of expression

But this was an art capable of putting a twist on fate

Easily masking the welcomed contusions of love with hatred

While between the lines only I know what exists

A saga that begs to be captured in it’s entirety of truth

Though my words have a tendency to make things miniscule

Here, I can change what the radar reflects

Continuing my unsuccessful failure alone

And maybe I’ll look into paintings of stars this time

By someone who isn’t aware of you

Opposite of me.

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