The Starving Artist

You said you wished the stars were red,
so I pulled them down one by one
and painted them by hand,
for you.

Your eyes lingered as she walked away,
so I stood up taller and
I painted my hair golden,
because I remember how you liked that.

“I don’t have time for your juvenile games,” as you go off with your
associates in black woolen coats and fancy silk ties.
 I often wonder, as I paint my aging face,
if you “associate” with their pink lace, too.

Sometimes I still dance around like we did
when we didn’t worry about Tomorrow.
We never expected anything to change – too helplessly in love…
 Don’t you remember?

Turn that off
you say with such disdain,
because I am still such a child
who paints the stars
(for you)

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