By- Traci Taylor
Do not repaint the picture
and make rainbows out of the storm clouds.
The wounds are etched in concrete.
Our love was a masterpiece of internal war.
No longer drowning from the deep seas of July,
the sands of the shore have been reached.
Memories linger, and hearts may skip beats.
In the blink of an eye there was a blank space of absence.
The hand on the clock only stops when the battery is removed.
Time must continue on.
Words can get as twisted as memories,
but every love story writes itself.