Frame

Eyelids start to flutter like a camera made to hold
Us in a moment that was warm before the blood was turning cold
Enough to stop us in our tracks before the facts were ever told
In any way that really mattered and they mattered more than gold

Hidden neath a summit that we knew we couldn’t reach
Until we finally understood that words of love are not a speech
To be delivered or remanded or a heavy-handed preach
Of accusation or elation that we’re neither fit to teach

Painting our imagination on each other’s soul
As if a mural of intention on a canvas of control
That was devouring the color like a picture made of coal
We meant to burn before we saw that we were not, without it, whole

Weaving what was possible into a new refrain
That shouldn’t be, we tried to sweep the reticence beneath the blame
Of the illusions and the feelings that we never could explain
And so it seems for all the cutting, and the cursing, and the pain
The picture of us we imagined, whether photographed or painted, never really seemed to fit within the frame