I'm painting my picture again,
He's beautiful beyond compare.
Constantly perfecting my idea,
Adding strokes here and there.
It hurts my heart to look,
And yet I can't look away.
My picture tears me up inside,
Although he has no words to say.
It's almost been a year,
Yet I haven't let go of this brush.
I've given all I've had to give,
It's taken away so much.
I'd hoped he'd open his lips,
And speak words of desire.
I longed for them to speak,
Of waiting I did not tire.
But his smile began to fade,
He frowned and closed his eyes.
Even though I stroked harder,
He didn't want me in his life.
I laid my brush to rest,
And closed my eyes to sleep.
I saw his perfection before me,
I couldn't help but weep.
There was nothing left to do,
So I put him in a frame.
I pinned it up in sorrow,
As I engraved his name.
His residence is the real world,
Our lives are miles apart.
I painted his face because,
I'll never have his heart.
He joins a host of frames,
Faces painted and drawn.
A single thread runs in them,
- Men I wished upon.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem