My Hand-crafted Memoirs of Grief

I try to paint you sometimes,

I paint your hair with essential oils from Buenos Aires.

I paint your eyes as yellow as the sun & as tender as daffodils.

I try to paint your heart, a bit bigger than it usually is.

I paint your past with alibis of grief. 

I paint your future with promises that are too great to keep.

I try to paint our  present, yet the painting always feels incomplete.

What happens when your hues run out? 

When you are left with too little red, yet you are left with a whole lot of grey.

You got to make do with what you have and label it as an incomplete masterpiece at best. 

I try to paint over your wounds with red of love, hoping it will subdue the red of  your blood.

I try to paint your scars with the sky full of stars that we cherish under the dark blue sky.

I try to paint your lust for me with a gentle stroke and try to eradicate all your memoirs of an unwanted touch.

I try to paint over your insecurities every day with affirmations of joy, even though I know it will be never enough.

I do try to paint, but my will is helpless here against my skills here.

I do this all in my head while I'm alone in my bed.

I'm wondering all these paintings,  all these emotions would have been better, it were left unpainted.

I don't know what is worse, them being unfinished or them being unwanted.

I can neither sell them or leave them unhinged.

I was hoping if you could keep them, either as memoirs or another sign of grief.