Words are art, like painters they must be explained in query. So I hang a mirror to capture stars and I write without ink. In a silent stifle, I adore your frame, bent in slivers of your eye's rain. I picture your lips saturated to drench this poet's sail from destinations only a pink moon can mauve. I crossed lines to depict the anecdote from a raconteur's veins in vain. I want to fuck all words so I can finally say what I can speak no longer... that I loved you.