I bleed with ink.
You breathe in brushstrokes.
Still, we meet
in the same shade of ache.

I call it a stanza.
You call it a sky,
but both are ways
to survive the silence.

My pen trembles like your hands do
when the colours won’t blend.
We try to tell the truth,
but it keeps slipping
into metaphor.

I say “I miss you”
through rhythm.
You say it
through smudged reds
and too much blue.

We never made sense
in black and white.
But somewhere between
my verse
and your canvas,
we almost
became a masterpiece.