artist being

The writing is on her arm.

It was running down like water. Dreams too vivid to be real. Speaking vulnerabilities meant only for one existence. I told you not to fall. in. love. Gushing water. She was feeling too much. Such a cliche. Water flows through tight spaces meant to keep us stagnant. It was hard enough to leave the prairies.
I come and stand here to say I am not sorry. The water is low and soon it will all be empty. We will have lived for decades. We will look back and the milkweeds will still be there by the pine trees in the back of the prairies. She will only remember how it all felt in color.
Burnt sienna glazes trying to make it better. Threads meant to be pulled. Gold halos in the water meant to be picked up. Not drowning, but wading, waiting. Waiting to be put back on.
The art is inside. Ready to be pulled back out. Telling truths. When you tell someone you are fine, you better be. There is no more time. There is no more time to be waiting to be your authentic self.