The days blend together like watercolor.
I miss the clarity of acrylic paint:
Its sharp edges and details,
Deliberate strokes and color matching,
The way you can see your reflection in the water. Now it’s foggy in the daylight
And the lines outside don’t connect
So much as lazily overlap.
Careful brushstrokes dissipate into careless splotches, And it is not the thing itself that matters
But the attempt to capture it:
An attempt that yields to the knowledge of its own futility. So I will not define – I will suggest.
I will not tell you the truth – I will write you this poem.