Every time I think about love,
I draw a blank.
It’s almost as if the canvas is white,
So beautifully, blindingly, white
That any words or color
Are unnecessary.
And the canvas in itself
Has an unparalleled surrealism.
The longer I stare at the canvas
The stranger the white becomes
Starting from the Familiar
And expanding into the oblivion.
It’s curiously empty.
Almost haunting,
Because there seem to be
A multitude present
That I can feel,
But cannot see, touch or expound.
These multitude hide colors
Scintillating and arrestive.
So many that they choose this void of white
Over the existence of individual.
Even in darkness,
This white is the shadow.
Just a shadow in itself,
Of a light that burns irrespective.
Almost as if a lantern were lit
And a screen placed in front of it.
Does the lantern still burn?
No one knows.
But you stand close enough,
And the heat speaks to you softy.
“I’m here” it says,
Touching you without touching you.
Lighting without light.
A presence without a presence
A shadow without an object.
This illustrious nothingness,
And its exceptional everything,
Oft incomprehensible,
Is nevertheless vivid.
Words falter,
Eyes deceive,
But what is felt; feels eternal,
Beyond the constructs of the apparent creation.
This white canvas,
I’d paint your face on it if I could,
But my hand doesn’t move.
For what’s within cannot be without,
Without losing its very existence.
It’s immobilizing,
And yet invigorating;
This inability to express.
And with it
I lose the disposition to express,
All that I wish to.
Descending into the abstract
Of this eternal space
And it’s hidden warmth,
And hope that you find
Whatever you will,
Within this canvas of never ending love
And without.
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