an artist dips his paintbrush
into pools of violent and blue,
adding a hint of red, a bottomless red, to his pallet.
he marks up the surface, creating abstract art;
his brush dances,
and twirls,
and spins.

once he is finished he takes a step back
admiring his beautiful, horrible masterpiece.
he drops his paints, she drops her tears-
this happens again,
and again,
and again.

one day he will realize his art is not art
when her tears wash the black from his mind.
but she will be gone, so far gone,
using the reds of his pallet to adorn her face
with lips that curve up
at each end.