Rough - Untitled

Get home
Throw on your painting shirt
and stand at the easel, dry brush in hand.

Don't think about before
Don't think about him
Don't look at your fingers

Blank canvas waiting.
Breath to intake.

Drip paint onto the floor
and it pools like so much
expectation.

Everyone has something.
A stretched canvas of something.
But the sea has crawled back from the shore.
And the roads only go so far
before they are dirt.

And knees crumble under weight
and time, and men die.

Tomorrow.
Tomorrow will come whether I paint or not.