The fire of your red heart beating
With the fervor of a thousand horses.
With hands held tightly,
Our grip begins to break.
So tender, so awkward,
Our lips inches to infinity.
The distance taking it’s tole,
A heart jaded by autumns morning frost.
A black tie, a red dress.
The hollowed out shells of what was once a man,
Once a women.
A photograph in my mind,
The only thing to remind me of what once was
Is now a boxcar turned sideways,
Jackson Pollock bellows,
His perfect picture returned,
All that’s left is the distance...
A picture of our torn up praise.