we were the broken lovers,
who first met in art school,
our love spilled out for each other,
like the colour indefinite,
on a a naked canvas,
each night we broke boundaries,
and travelled across to each other’s bodies,
marking and painting,
with only our hands,
like a blind sculptor playing with clay;
we were the broken lovers,
last sighted together in principal’s office,
he said it was her wrinkles,
her age, her grey hair,
which concerned him,
that how can ageing and rotting lips,
kiss ones which are still pure and young,
and of course to that everyone agreed,
and the broken lovers were pulled apart,
never seeing each other again;
but for now,
for now,
i see her,
after 11 years,
7 steps away from me,
her hair as grey as the storm inside me,
and wrinkles still as remarkable,
i approach her,
i won’t let her go now,
for our souls create art together,
and art never looks for dying age,
or for rotting edges or scorned centre,
art is love,
all broken and chaotic,
and we both are lovers,
all broken and chaotic.
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