Whitespace

Every love ends in one of two ways

either a nostalgic wondering

of what could have been

or a lifetime of dredging out the heart,

pushing, fighting, with every ounce,

the heat welling in the head, the face, around the eyes, inside the eyes themselves,

for a dream that is never realized

it is only fought for.

If I was to paint a mural of our love

I would spray the wall all white

and rearrange the furniture in the room

so when you were walking by for just a moment

you’d see past the wood and upholstery

to see a backlit shape between the chairs and tables

in the whitespace.