Unpainted

I left your canvas unpainted.
Blank.
Insipid.
Storyless.
Loveless.
I left it incapable of color
Of desire
Of breathing
Of recuperating from blinding white.

I drowned myself in silver
To fuse with your storylessness
Along the sheen of stardust.

Who knows
This lack of stories
Might be our crude form
Our birth suit
Our origin
Our ancient belonging
Our eternal longing.

What story would you then write
If you knew none was told
If you knew none was lived
If you knew none was dreamt?
 
What story, would you, then write?
Would you, write?
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