An artist at the table pulls the canvas from his eyes,

Tearing sheets of burning labels,

Rolling hills and painted skies.

Theres breakfast on the table,

A note left on the door.

It reads "I love you truely,

I just can't stand anymore".

Though its not been read yet,

His heart already weeps.

As he crawls into the closet,

And cry's himself to sleep.

(waking)

A fragile glass collection,

Lay scattered on the floor.

And to his recollection,

The note left on the door.

Building deep inside hims',

Another fit of rage.

Forfeiting the anger,

He tossed the note away.

His head down on the counter,

His hands gripping his face,

With burning eyes he wonders,

And rest his pain stained grace.

Looking all around him,

Thinking "nothing feels the same",

He listens for the thunder,

While welcoming the rain...

Softly tip toes tapping,

A turning of the door.

Walking in she see's him,

Sprawled out upon the floor.

"You did'nt read the note" she says,

"You thought that I was gone"?

"Never to return to you,

And all I counted on".

Laying down beside her,

Later on that night.

I crawled up deep inside her thinking,

"Nothing feels this right.

Nothing with intentions,

That life would let me keep".

So I pulled up the covers,

And cried myself to sleep.