...the city's streets

[some shit I jacked off Tumblr. ]

his masterpiece [kind of old]

He’s a painter. 
Typically anywhere but on my face. 
He is an artist…. my body, his canvas. He colors me… black, blue.
                                                                       Sometimes he surprises me by adding splashes of pink and red, to show my appreciation I close my eyes and wait for it to end. It’s love, it has to be. If he didn’t love me, he wouldn’t paint on me. He’s says its my fault, I’m his inspiration. I don’t see how I’m to blame for his impatience. He’s good at making excuses even better at making me feel fat, ugly, and useless. My mind is weak, but my body is weaker. It looks fine on the surface; I dare you to look deeper. His masterpiece complete.. The hatred in his eyes retreats. It’s only then that he repeats “I swear I’ll stop doing this to you”. Everything in me wants to believe him, but his actions always speak louder than his promises do...  

Impressionist.

We were nothing special- all feelings I'd felt before.

That doesn't seem to satisfy their questions on why we're no more.

I tried to explain that you and I constructed our own Monet

               - a picture only appearing real from far away. 

But still they want reasons why we didn't last… I can't find the words to

explain that weren't meant to be anything more than bold nostalgia…

exquisitely painted pictures from things you've seen in the past… 

Simply impressionist… creating beautiful masterpieces- losing 

ourselves in each other time and time again, passionately colorful releases.

Maybe we could've caught more than just a glimpse… 

if lust hadn't of stained our view… 

but you were gone from my life before i even realized i was losing you.