As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.
-Anne Sexton
I am the vase of flowers
on the canvas you leave
unfinished. You do not
dare complete this scene-
paint a table with me
as the centerpiece, a lamp
for light, glasses for sight,
a mirror to reflect what
you see in me. No, I exist
alone in your memory.
I am the vase of flowers
you leave, the canvas
you leave unfinished.
Your brush could stain
my leaves with color,
define the curves of these
petals, shape this vase
you have placed me in.
Until now, I do not know
what kind of flower
I am to you-just one
without thorns. I am
the vase of flowers,
the vase of flowers
you leave unfinished.
If I asked, would you
tell me why you cannot
picture a room for me
to live and breathe in?
Or make me bloom
as vividly as real flowers
in your real garden?
I am the vase you leave,
the flowers you leave,
the canvas unfinished.
You have painted me
in watercolor, in the blurs
and strokes of dreams,
then left me lonely
on this canvas. Are you
waiting for me to wilt?
Do you still want me
to break? Will you water
or wash me off with tears?
