I wanted to love you like the beautiful paintbrush
That I stole from my mother in my young days
Of colours and weirdest thoughts;
And the brush had a little crack at the end,
And it became my favourite thing,
Even at times when the lines and colours
Betrayed my imagination and I spilled everything around
Like a completely disoriented mad woman.
There’s a rupture in my reality.
I saw it first when the brush died;
The pests of the old house ate the bristles, I guess.
And then there were deaths and lies and smiles
That I forgot in time.
Then came you, and I thought I could love
You who come with the messiness of the palette
In the middle of a painting on a lazy afternoon.
But I have forgotten how it felt to hold my brush,
And now I’ve forgotten how it felt to hold you!
Well I don’t know how to love,
‘Cause I don’t know what love is.
But today is the first rainy day
Punctuating the end of our winter.
Won’t you wait till spring, before you leave?