I know I haven’t been to the stream
I went to buy a canvas
And met someone at the market
We bought paints, brushes
Sat in the wooden house drawing valleys
And castles
You know how I love making castles
Seasons passed and our little wooden house
Changed into an overflowing gallery
When we ran out of paint
He went back to buy more
Came back with only ink
Are you going to write our story behind the canvas babe?
He splashed it on me
Hurled it across all our paintings
It’s okay we are wild
What’s life without a little fun
He bought a knife next
Then matches
Handed them to me and left
I sat
For so long
Becoming ink
To once be the thing he held last
He held at least
Yellow wildflowers, where is the stream
I know acrylic paint can be peeled off the canvas
So I sat, peeling
Unpinned the canvases
From their frames
Made a pile of
Our wooden frames, brushes, paints,
our memories
Took his matches,
His final parting gift
And struck them
