Unwritten
Something unwritten
Unsaid
All in the streaks of black and white
On the canvas strewn across the bed.

I am the painter
You, my model
Yet as I pull stroke after stroke
This image of you
Remains ever so grey.

Dull, lifeless.
What have we become?

I halt.
I cannot pursue.
I'm lost again.

And that was how I lost you.