Love is Art

Like a delicate snowflake dancing on the tendrils of a red hot fire, I melt beneath your words.

Not because they drip with honey-sweet love, but because they’re laced with the promises I cling to.

You’re like spilled black ink on starch white canvas, always changing the picture I’m painting.

Fragile and flawed art; I try to illustrate me in a different light, the me I wish you could have.

I fall short every time, but your arms remain wrapped around my waist nonetheless; permanent.

I guess I’ll hang our painting on the wall.