I observed in envy.
You were there again,
but I can't remember the color of your shirt
(was it white once more?)
And I had this feeling of security again
that you were staying, and staying for good.
That wordless promise that arrives when you did.
You showed a picture you drew with black ink.
With fast, slim lines and long, thoughtful blobbed ends.
It was on a flimsy white paper like you spent all night making it.
Drips of lavender sprayed intentionally to romantacize the piece.
It was a __________ flower.
I forgot that you were skilled with your hands.
And I forgot that you could do this.
I forgot that you could surpass me.
How did I remember now?
I observed it with envy.
It enveloped me.
Reminding that you were happy and moved on
and made another masterpiece, forgetting me.
Where every time I start to draw,
I end up erasing everything over and over again
until I let go of it and realized I could move on.
The flower.
Why did you draw a flower?
Why did you made it in black ink?
Why did you ignore the colors it came with?
Why did you show me that drawing?
I woke up with the question unanswered.
That feeling of security evaporated as I inhaled the waking.
That beautiful drawing of that flower was gone but remained.
You showing me the flower was gone but remained.
Though, it was still gone.
And I watched with envy.
