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The Canvas of Love

Every time I think about love,

I draw a blank.

It’s almost as if the canvas is white,

So beautifully, blindingly, white

That any words or color

Are unnecessary.

And the canvas in itself

Has an unparalleled surrealism.

The longer I stare at the canvas

The stranger the white becomes

Starting from the Familiar

And expanding into the oblivion.

It’s curiously empty.

Almost haunting,

Because there seem to be

A multitude present

That I can feel,

But cannot see, touch or expound.

These multitude hide colors

Scintillating and arrestive.

So many that they choose this void of white

Over the existence of individual.

Even in darkness,

This white is the shadow.

Just a shadow in itself,

Of a light that burns irrespective.

Almost as if a lantern were lit

And a screen placed in front of it.

Does the lantern still burn?

No one knows.

But you stand close enough,

And the heat speaks to you softy.

“I’m here” it says,

Touching you without touching you.

Lighting without light.

A presence without a presence

A shadow without an object.

This illustrious nothingness,

And its exceptional everything,

Oft incomprehensible,

Is nevertheless vivid.

Words falter,

Eyes deceive,

But what is felt; feels eternal,

Beyond the constructs of the apparent creation.

This white canvas,

I’d paint your face on it if I could,

But my hand doesn’t move.

For what’s within cannot be without,

Without losing its very existence.

It’s immobilizing,

And yet invigorating;

This inability to express.

And with it

I lose the disposition to express,

All that I wish to.

Descending into the abstract

Of this eternal space

And it’s hidden warmth,

And hope that you find

Whatever you will,

Within this canvas of never ending love

And without.

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