My art teacher used to say.

“Don’t add the black paint until you’re ready for a finished product”

and I never listened.

So I painted with my black paint

a little too soon,

a little too much,

a little too dark,

a little too passionate,

a little too addicted,

to the night,

I always enjoyed the starry sky.

My art teacher used to say

“Keit, I know that you love her, I see it, you two are my favorite couple”

and I never listened.

So I broke her heart at night 

as she gripped her chest

while I did,

as she hid her heart

while I bit,

as she held her tongue 

while I kissed,

as she ran from me,

while I chased.

I always enjoyed the lustful parts,

but I miss the gentle parts more.

My art teacher used to say.

“black is dominance,

black is overwhelming,

and black is torture,

but black must be controlled”

but I never listened.

Because it never made much sense, I didn’t make much sense of anything except for her. I tried to make sense out of a human being, my human being. A lover, my lover, and you know what the trust it all about?

People don’t make sense.

Love has no sense of direction.

People are chaotic.

Love is chaos.

People are nature’s kiss,

Love, the lips.

People are timeless.

Love is timed.

She was natural.

I was the fucking disaster.

There is a quote out there that goes,

and you’ll know why people are named after storms, why hurricanes are named after girls and you know what?

She wasn’t any of those things,

I was.

I was the earthquake that

shook her buildings down

and they crashed into her heart;

that explains the cracks.

I was the wildfire that

burnt through her magical forest 

and the rabbit lost more time;

that explains Alice in wonderland.

I was the calm eye of the storm that 

had one sweet angle and 20 more reasons to fuck her over;

my insides said I love you,

but my outsides and I hate you

that explains the obsession,

this hopeless romantic poetry bullshit.

I was a flood,

and her eyes the land,

her eyes the gates,

her eyes the drowned city.

I was the big bang,

and her soul the many universes 

within universes, the many stars 

followed by comet showers,

the wishing stars that never came true, 

the first time the moon met the sun,

love at first sight, forever separated,

the moon crashing into the sun,

night and dat never being one 

until dawn came and twilight clouds

rained her name and my name

was shot across the enos of lightyears

and no one hears my scream in space

except for her an she does care,

but these type of blackholes

suck up everything!

They destroy everything,

a still painting dripping with black paint and I wanted to lover her

and all of this time I thought

that she was the black paint,

but it was me, who was the paint.

And I took all of her light,

a black hope in space

kissing the suns of my theory 

one last time,

into the darkness they went

and back to the darkness 

that they came from.

And my art teacher used to say

“Don’t add the black paint until you’re ready for the finished product.”

I finally listened.

So I let go of her a few days ago.

I told myself that I needed to stop.

Stop talking to her like she was

the sunset we all adored 

and how her eyes meant the world,

and it it meant that she’d wink

butterflies into the pit of my stomach,

I’d die as a self-imploding star.

So I stopped myself from being

more black paint, I crossed out 

her face with my own fingers

and kissed her one last time.

My art teacher used to say

“because this black is undoing, you cannot paint over it with white the black is so dense, it’s raw, it’s real it stops all hints of color under it over and over it. Because this is art and art is life, art is poetry and art is love, because art it everything and anything”

So I became the nights she had to sleep alone, so I became the nights I cried to sleep, so I became free from her love and I finally understood my art teacher, I finally understood my ex.

“Black paint is the purest color and lightest of color if used correctly with the right amount of care and tender”

Add a little black with white

and you’ll have grey.

Add a little black with red

and you you’ll have my bleeding heart.

and a little black and blue

and you’ll have her bruised lips.

And a little black with yellow

and you’ll have her eye color.

add a little black to my soul,

and you’ll have lust.

Add a little black to my heart,

and you’ll have her.

And I could swear I head my art teacher say.

“You’ll let go of her one day when you’re ready, you’ll add red aver all of your paintings because they’ll remind you of her lips, it’ll be you favorite color, you’ll ad blue over your roses because red has too much passion, it’s on fire and sometimes we have to appreciate the beauty of weirdness, poetry and art is weird, the best kind, you’ll add pale yellow for her skin tome and you’ll add dark, dark brown near lonely tree trunks because it’ll remind you of her eyes that cried every night because you didn’t know how to love, young kids finding slipped pants unhooked bras more satisfying than adding black paint to solidify a relationship that could’ve been, and you’ll add your last drop, the finishing touch, you’ll be the black paint, and she’ll be the finished product.”

And I finally listened.

I finally listened to art teacher.

So I let you of, baby.

The world is your canvas

and I was the black paint.

His lips your new black paint,

and you, his unfinished product.