We see what we want to see.
She comes home late with a grin wrapping around her head and a hint of sweat holding her hand, guiding her through the room.
Her lips feel warm; her kiss feels cold.
His smile turns his suspension to ash.
Ash grows to ember and allows truth to sprout.
She isn't home yet.
All the lights in the house are off except the one at his desk.
Shining down on his craft.
As pen licks paper;
Transparency intertwines truth and suspensions.
You see her everyday but she's never there.
She was never yours.
But you paint a pretty picture to give depression a beautiful face.
A face that blends in with the stars, a voice that seduces your ears, rushes red and an attitude to have you begging.
On chance, the moon blocks her face and life shines in the dark.
When the earth sighs, the sun yawns and my chest no longer moves, my night shines.
My life is covered in ink, blocking suspensions and intentions.
I paint over my life.