My canvas feels (16/1/2009)

You come in like a surge of warmth
across the vast blank of my canvas
telling it this is light
when there is only darkness.

You begin to ravage my canvas
bleeding all over it
scarring across nothing
making it loase its everything.

For a while I thought it was abstract art;
that scars were poignant touches of beautiful strokes
to imperfect the otherwise perfect body
in order to make it perfect.

And then tears of my canvas begin to cascade
drowning you with misery
winning for your sympathy-
and you come in like a surge of warmth.

You start boiling into its pores with your searing heat
ripping open the very heart of my canvas
making it scream for nothing;
for everything in the world just to get anything
(anything, anything that will stop this pain.)

My canvas tears and splits
and starts falling to the ground
I hold them in my hands
not knowing what to do next.

You left from your own surge of warmth.